World on Fire
by BlackIceWitch
Summary: AU story. An attempt to change the course of destiny goes wrong, very badly wrong, and Castiel, Dean and Sam are trapped in a world and a time of savagery and danger, a world where legend and myth were born, and a prophecy revealed for a single opportunity to save the world for all time. Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC, Cas/OFC. No slash, no spoilers.
1. Prologue

**World on Fire**

* * *

**Prologue**

_You are what your deep, driving desire is._

_As your desire is, so is your will._

_As your will is, so is your deed._

_As your deed is, so is your destiny._

_~ Brihadaranyaka Upanishad IV_

* * *

I have studied the lines of Destiny for more than two thousand years, and still, I cannot point to one node or another in the lines and say – yes, this is the decision that will change all the rest.

If we are to believe, as I now must, that free will is a part of the natural order, and our choices have meaning and weight, it cannot be foretold, or prophesised where or when a decision will take a soul to this destiny or to that one.

I only know that of all the choices I have made, and of all the choices I have witnessed watching humankind on this small, insignificant planet, the one I made on January 8th, in the year 2010, was the most important. If not for the world, then for the brothers whom I had come to feel as closer to me than my own family.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

_January 8th 2010_

Castiel sat on the bench in the park. He watched the birds land by the icy pond, the fragile, frozen reeds bend in the slight breeze that soughed from the north. He thought of all the possibilities for change that lay within his reach. He could not determine, precisely, which would definitively change the path that had led them here. He hoped he would be able to recognise the moment when it came.

"Cas." Dean hunched into his coat. "You wanted to see us?"

Sam stood behind him, the army jacket zipped up to his chin. Castiel looked at them, and rose. From his pocket he took three angel swords, passing one to Dean, one to Sam. They looked at each other, down at the swords, and then back to the angel.

"Killing angels?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it, but it seems a bit redundant now."

"Just one." Castiel looked at him. "A long time ago."

He shrugged "Well, for you anyway. I've been looking at the pattern for weeks, and we can put an end to everything that's happened at this one moment. But I need your help."

"Time travel?" Sam looked at Dean. "I thought you said we couldn't change destiny that way."

"In most cases, no. In this case, I believe that we'll be able to." Castiel stepped closer to them. Dean looked at him warily.

"Who are we going to kill, Cas?" he asked.

"Azazel," Castiel said simply. "On July second in 1972, he is present in St Mary's Convent, Ilchester, Maryland. He slaughters eight nuns."

"Azazel's a demon." Sam frowned.

"Once he was an angel." Castiel looked from one to the other. "Once he fell, and fought with Lucifer. He was cast into perdition. And with the others he was tortured and twisted. But the angel blade can still kill him. As the Colt could." He looked at the knife sheathed on Sam's belt. "As that knife cannot."

"The Colt could kill angels?" Dean looked surprised. "It didn't kill Lucifer."

"No, but it could kill any other angel, except Michael." Castiel looked around, distracted. Something else was nearby. "We have to hurry."

He reached out to them, laying his fingers against their temples. Dean bent his knees and braced himself. Sam started to say something, as he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision.

Then there was blackness.

The times when Castiel had previously transported them, the transfer was instantaneous. This time it was not. There was a wrench, a push against them and they spun around, Sam's hand flying out, gripping his brother's arm tightly.

Dean could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, could feel the rush of his blood through his veins. Darkness and colour coruscated against his closed eyelids, a weight pressed down on him, heavier and heavier as the moment in between time grew longer. He couldn't feel Castiel's fingers against his face, couldn't feel Sam's hand on his arm; for a terrifying moment he wondered if he'd been cast away, to remain in the void for eternity. There was no air to breathe and his lungs ached, then burned.

Then light returned, bright and sharp behind his lids and he felt the uneven ground beneath his feet, stumbling, flinging his hands out for balance as his eyes opened.

The dull pewter coloured sky seemed close to them, and as he turned he realised that they were high in a mountain range, above the snowline, broken granite rock pushing through the thin grass of an alpine meadow.

Beside him, Sam was on his knees, gasping as he braced himself against the ground, the angel sword still held tightly in his hand, gleaming dully in the diffused light. Dean turned and saw Castiel, lying on the ground several feet away, his head thrown back, still.

He walked unsteadily to the angel, kneeling and lifting Castiel's head gently. Blood coated the lower half of his face, rivulets had leaked from his eyes and ears, had poured from his nose. Dean laid his fingers against the carotid artery in Cas' neck, relieved when he found a pulse, and the pulse was steady.

He looked across to Sam. "You alright?"

Sam nodded, leaning back on his heels and looking around slowly. "Yeah. That was worse than the last time."

He frowned as he took in the mountains, the tree line of birch and pine below them. "Dean …"

Castiel twitched, and Dean looked down. "Mmm?"

"I don't think we're in the States anymore." Sam frowned as he looked to the north. Jagged mountains, peaked with snow, curved northwards.

"Where are we?" Dean looked up, his brows drawing together.

"I don't know." Sam said quietly. "But these mountains, look at them." He turned around. The range he was looking at curved and twisted south and east; sharp, grey, snow sitting on their peaks, tinged to silver in the grey light. The thinness of the air told him that they were very high.

Castiel coughed. Dean eased him into a sitting position. "Cas?"

Castiel opened his eyes slowly, squinting as the light hit them. "Dean? Is Sam here?"

"Yeah, we made it." Dean looked down at his friend's face. "You look like your brain leaked, man."

"There was a push … someone interfered as we were leaving," Castiel said disjointedly, looking around.

"Know where we are?" Dean looked up at his brother. Sam had risen to his feet, was walking slowly around the clearing.

Castiel closed his eyes. He seemed to be listening to something. After a moment, he opened them again and looked at Dean.

"Oh yes. I know where we are. And when." His expression was haggard.

"And?"

"We are between Russia and Georgia, in the Caucasus Mountains. Three hundred and twenty three years before the birth of Christ."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

"We're in Russia?" Sam looked at Dean.

"Well, it's not really Russia now. A collection of minor kingdoms since the death of Alexander. But yes." Castiel climbed slowly to his feet, leaning on Dean.

"You're referring to Alexander the Great?" Sam said flatly. Castiel nodded.

"Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make sure we couldn't succeed in changing the lines," Castiel said bleakly. "Until I can regain some strength … I'm sorry but I'm afraid we must remain here."

"Awesome." Dean looked around. "We're twenty three hundred years in the past, we don't know the customs, don't speak the languages, don't know what the hell is going on. We'll be dead before you're juiced up again, Cas."

"I can take care of the language problem," Castiel said quietly. "We need to find somewhere to take shelter, there's a storm coming." He looked to the east, where a thin line of dark grey cloud was forming.

"Yeah." Dean looked at Sam. "Know anything about where we are?"

"Oh, so now being a geek is useful?" Sam curled his lip at his brother. Dean shrugged.

"It's always useful, it's also always embarrassing."

"Huh." Sam looked around. "No, not much. But this area was … is … populated, we need to get lower to find settlements."

They headed down, picking their way through the meadow, until they'd reached the tree line. Dean cut three straight, long saplings from a stand of young birch trees. He trimmed the branches off, smoothing the slim trunks. He handed one to Castiel and one to Sam. The staffs would be useful both in travelling and as a weapon, if need be.

The forest below the snow line was thick, but here and there narrow trails wound among the trees, used by the animals of the region, perhaps by the locals leading their livestock up to the sweet grasses of the alpine pastures.

The going was slow, the trails covered by a deep, slippery layer of pine needles and leaf mulch, steep and occasionally blocked by fallen trees. Here and there the bones of the mountain protruded, granite outcroppings and rock faces, a reminder than the range was relatively young.

By the time the sky darkened with the outriders of the storm, they had reached the edge of the boreal forest, the maple and oak, beech and hemlock provided relative warmth and shelter as thunder rumbled above.

"Did you see that?" Dean whispered to Sam, glancing back at the trail behind them. Sam turned his head slightly.

"Yeah. Something's tracking us."

"This just gets better and better," Dean growled. "How big do you think this forest is?"

Sam shrugged ruefully. "No logging, no manufacturing, it could be a million acres, it could be ten million."

"We need to find something soon. A cave, if nothing else," Dean said worriedly. "Cas doesn't have much left."

Sam nodded. "We need to bear right a bit more. There was a creek higher up; we might find something closer to the water."

"All right." Dean extended his stride, catching up with the angel who stumbled along in front of them. He spotted a small side trail to the right and guided Castiel to it.

* * *

They found the gully containing the creek an hour later. Above them, the storm had thickened, the wind rising and howling in the upper valleys, lightning still far off but getting closer, the distant rumbles of thunder continuous. As Sam had hoped, the water had cut through the rock and there were hollows and openings along the edges. It would be raining soon and none of them could afford the loss of heat that being drenched would take from them. Sam pointed as they followed the line of the running water.

"Dean. There."

Dean turned to look. The cave opening wasn't large, but it looked deep, the blackness impenetrable from where he stood. He felt for his Colt automatic, pulling it from his jacket and thumbing off the safety. Just their luck to run into a cave with an inhabitant, he thought. Bear and wolf and god knows what else must have been plentiful around here at one time – in this time, he corrected himself. He hoped it would be small enough to be killed by the rounds he carried, not just pissed off by them.

He stopped at the opening, leaning his staff against the outside wall and pulling out the small flashlight from his pocket. He was relieved when it worked, playing the beam around the walls of the opening. The air smelled dusty, but untainted by any other scent; in particular there was no trace of the rank stench of a predator. He walked inside slowly. After a few feet, the narrow entrance opened up, into a larger cave. The floor was dry, soft dirt. The walls were also dry. He walked to the back, where a narrow hole angled up. There was a faint air movement there, carrying a damp scent, of earth, of growing things. A natural chimney? He shone the light into the hole, which twisted and turned through the rock above. It was bare and smooth.

He returned to the entrance and waved at Sam and Castiel. It would do them for the night, he thought with satisfaction. At least they weren't likely to die the first day.

* * *

Dean and Sam walked through the forest together, gathering wood. They would need a fire through the night, to keep warm and to discourage anything from entering the cave. The fallen branches were still dry and dense. They returned to the cave and Sam made a small fire at the rear, under the chimney. When the heat began to rise, the smoke was drawn straight up,.

"Good." Dean looked at it. "We won't suffocate."

Castiel lay on a bed of bracken. He had washed his face in the creek outside, and aside from the fact his head felt as if it had been broken open and only loosely glued back together, he thought he was recovering. He hadn't told them how badly he'd been injured. They didn't need the extra worry.

He couldn't think which of the angels had diverted them to this time, this place. The effort it must have taken was considerable, and he began to consider that it might not have been an individual, working alone.

Sam fed the fire slowly, until the bed of coals was well established. He laid several of the larger pieces down as the storm broke overhead. Dean crouched in the entrance, watching the rain drum down, the creek rising and tossing with the water coming from the mountainsides above them. They were well above the level of it, he noted. Sam thought that gully had been formed by ice, rather than water.

His attention was caught by a movement in the trees on the opposite bank. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the sheeting rain. The trees were lashing in the wind funnelled down the gully, the undergrowth shaking with the force of wind and rain. He saw nothing further, but a sense of uneasiness remained. He and Sam would take watches tonight.

* * *

The storm lasted through the night. Dean fed the fire; the enclosed air of the cave was warm and dry. He looked at his brother and the angel, sleeping to either side. Sam had taken the first watch, now the years had dropped away from him as his face relaxed in sleep. He looked no more than eighteen again, Dean thought. A branch broke in the fire, and the brighter light from the fresh flame banished the shadows.

Two hours later he leaned back against the wall of the cave, and stretched. The rain had stopped, but the world was still dripping. The creek rushed along, brown and muddied now, branches tossed in the white water as it poured over rocks and raced around the bends.

He was hungry, and he had a sinking feeling that he would get hungrier. Until they found people, they would have to hunt for their food, probably after they found people as well – he wasn't too clear on that. He dragged out his memories of hunting with Bobby, when he and Sam were kids. He couldn't remember taking anything larger than a rabbit. It had been Bobby who had taken deer, clean kills; and skinned and dressed the carcasses afterwards.

He straightened up and stood, ducking his head a little as he walked out of the cave's entrance. The air was fresh and clean – really clean – he thought, he didn't remember smelling air that unpolluted before, even in the back country. The wind had dropped, but high overhead the ragged remaining clouds scudded fast, showing intermittent flashes of a pale blue sky.

The soil in front of the cave had been pounded and smoothed by the rain. He looked down, at first not registering what he was seeing. In the reddish brown clay at the mouth of the cave were tracks. Long, narrow tracks, made by no creature he'd ever seen or heard of. They might have been human, if there had been five toes, not four. And if the toes had not been evenly sized, each with a protruding claw, clearly defined in the softened soil.

He looked around, staring at the trees, the rocks, the creek, now swollen to a small river. The tracks had come to the cave from the left, looking out. The prints milled around in front of the entrance, then headed along the narrow path to the right, disappearing over the bare rock where the soil ended. Dean stared at them, his face troubled.

* * *

Sam stretched out and opened his eyes. The firelight was still bright, throwing umber shadows against the walls. The ground was hard, but he was warm at least. He looked around. Castiel was still sleeping, his vessel's skin still pale and tinged with grey. He couldn't see Dean. He slowly became aware of a low grumbling in his stomach. They would need food and soon.

He rolled onto his knees and stood up, being careful not to straighten out. The cave was roomy enough but didn't accommodate his full height. He walked to the cave's mouth. Dean stood just outside, still.

"Rain stopped?" Sam walked up behind his brother.

"Yeah. A couple of hours ago." Dean pointed down to the tracks. "What do you make of those?"

Sam looked down and walked to the nearest, crouching and running his fingers lightly over the indentations. "I don't know. All the weight is on the toes, and … well, I guess it would be the ball of the foot in a human, the pad in an animal."

He looked up at Dean. "Did you hear it? Or see anything last night?"

Dean shook his head. "No, nothing. I'm guessing that this might be what was following us in the forest yesterday. I thought I saw a movement in the trees on the other side, just before the rain started but between the rain and the light, I couldn't pick it up again."

Sam looked at the depth of the tracks. "Whatever it is, it's big – our size, maybe heavier."

"Awesome." He rubbed his hand over his face and glanced back into the cave. "Cas awake?"

"Still sleeping." Sam stood up. "We need to hunt."

"Yeah, I'm getting pretty hungry too." Dean nodded. He pulled out the automatic and popped the magazine. Fully loaded. He replaced it and slammed it home, checking the safety before he put it back in his jacket.

"We've got twelve bullets in my piece. The demon knife. And the walking sticks I cut yesterday. Any ideas?"

"We could make traps, but it's only worthwhile if we're going hang around here for a couple of days at least." Sam looked down the river. "And we should move on, find other people as quickly as we can."

Dean touched Sam's arm lightly. Sam turned his head, following his brother's gaze. Higher up the river a large rabbit was crouched in the long grasses a few feet from the water. The wind was blowing down the gully toward them. Dean eased the Colt back out of his jacket pocket. He'd need to get closer. The gun would put a big hole in the poor little bunny, but they'd get something from it, he hoped.

He walked slowly past Sam, staying close to the rock face. The rabbit's nose was twitching, as it looked for danger. Dean reached the edge of the rock face; in front of him was the grassy slope that the rabbit had come down. He crouched down slowly, bringing the gun up and resting the edge of his trigger hand against the palm of the other. The rabbit shuffled forward toward the water. Dean lined the notch in his sight up with the eye that he could see, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The gunfire was monstrously loud in the gully, sending a flock of birds wheeling into the sky from the trees on the other side of the river, and something larger crashing away into the forest. The rabbit's head was gone, but the body was intact, lying limply where it had been thrown by the impact.

Dean stood up, and walked over to it, picking it up by the hind legs. He carried it back to the cave quickly, looking over his shoulder. He had a feeling that one shot had advertised their presence over a long distance.

"Nice job." Sam grinned at him as he came back up the trail. "Do you remember how to skin it?"

"Not so much." Dean looked down at the carcass in his hands. "It'll come back. Anything else that might be edible around here?"

Sam looked along the river, and shook his head regretfully. "Not at this time of year."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Castiel woke to the smell of roasting meat. He looked around groggily. Sam sat cross-legged by the fire, trying to ensure that the rabbit was cooked evenly on both sides. Dean was scraping the flesh from the rabbit skin by the entrance with the edge of the knife.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Breakfast," Dean said, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

"Rabbit," Sam said at the same time.

Castiel looked at Dean. "I thought you were against the killing of rabbits. It was a 'Glenn Close' thing."

Dean shrugged defensively. "We didn't torture it. And there aren't any stores around, convenience or otherwise. So we have to hunt to eat."

"I think it's done." Sam lifted the stick from the forks to either side of the fire and touched the meat, hissing and pulling his fingers away as it burned them. "We'll let it cool off for a minute or two."

The smell was rich and tempting, filling their mouths with saliva and they couldn't wait too long. Although large for a rabbit, divided between the three of them it went quickly. Dean licked his fingers thoroughly and looked at his watch. It was past seven. They needed to move.

"Think you can walk, Cas?" He looked at the angel. Castiel looked up. His skin was still pale, the dark stubble standing out along his jaw and around his mouth, but the grey tinge had gone. He nodded.

Sam put out the fire, covering it with dirt. Dean rolled up the skin, fur outwards, and tucked it into his pocket. He would try and cure it. It was wasn't very large but he thought there was enough to make mittens for Castiel's hands, which were red and chapped from the cold, if he could figure out something to use to stitch the pieces together.

* * *

They followed the small river down the gully, crossing to the forest side when the way was obstructed by rock falls. The forest was predominantly oak, elm and lime, with beech and pine and some fir intermingled. The trees were a mixture of ancient, monstrous specimens, with trunks many feet in diameter, towering hundreds of feet above the forest floor, and the smaller, younger trees that had grown up when the canopy was thinner. The undergrowth consisted of bracken and yew, ferns and lichen that grew around and over the roots.

The trail had widened out, its surface flat and even, their footfalls muffled by the thick layer of forest humus. They travelled in single file, Dean leading, his automatic in his hand; Castiel walking behind him slowly, leaning heavily on the new staff of oak that Dean had cut and shaped for him; Sam, carrying his own oak staff, bringing up the rear.

"Sam." Dean stopped, staring to one side. Sam walked past Castiel, and looked at the sign that had been carved into the broad trunk of a tree beside the path. It was vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn't place it.

"Signpost or warning?" Dean asked, looking around them. Sam frowned. He almost had the memory but then it had gone.

"No idea." He shrugged. "Someone lives around here, though."

Dean nodded and started walking again. None of them spoke in the deep silence of the forest. The age of the trees, the dimness of the light under the interlocking canopies, all made any conversation seem … unimportant.

Sam noticed that the trail they were on was gradually bearing them away from the river again. It was a well-used trail, and not just by the animals of the forest. He mentally debated the pros and cons of remaining close to the river, or following what was obviously a path to other people. It wasn't much of a debate. They needed people. They needed shelter, information, more weapons, the possibility of trading their skills for food.

He thought about that. Did they have skills they could trade? They were hunters, but it was highly likely that most of the men and women in this region would also be skilled hunters, a lot more skilled than they were in the tracking and hunting of animals. Dean was good with mechanical things, and construction, but how much use would those skills see in a society that was still primarily hunter-gatherer with a bit of agriculture thrown in? He had knowledge, that might be more valuable, if it were the kind of knowledge that these people needed. He shook his head. Wait and see, he counselled himself. Just wait and see.

* * *

They walked down through the forest for another three hours before the trees began to thin and they could see a much lower valley spreading out in front of them. The thin winter sunshine was welcome on their faces as they crossed a grassy hillside, finding a rough two-track road running to one side of it. Dean looked down at the deep ruts on either side of a higher grassed bank. Wagon wheels, he thought bemused. The centre strip was pocked with the hoofprints of horses and cattle.

The valley floor was narrow, following a wide, shallow river through twists between opposing ridges. The soil was deeper here, loess over clay, supporting copses of poplar, which lined the riverbanks. The village itself consisted of several dozen houses, built close together, in some cases sharing a common wall or walls, with steeply pitched roofs from whose chimneys smoke swirled. It was walled, a timber palisade reinforced by stone columns, fourteen feet high and joining to a square stone building that had been built partly into the steeply sloping hillside, commanding a view of the valley to the north and the south. The wall was pierced by a gate, built of thick timbers, reinforced by iron strapping. At this hour of the morning it stood open, and people were moving through it, baskets and pots, carriers and bundles on their backs as they went to collect whatever they could find to eke out their winter supplies.

Dean slowed down as they approached the village, uncomfortably aware of how conspicuous they looked in their modern clothing. The villagers wore homespun, tanned leather and furs, and they too were slowing as they watched the strangers walk along the rough track.

"This is worse than the west in 1861," Dean muttered.

"Just keep on walking," Sam said softly. "We're not that far from the Silk Road and the trading route through Turkey into western Europe; even these people will be aware that people from distant lands dress differently."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'm thinking that not even the most different has shown up in a trench coat."

They reached the gate. The people standing there drew back from them, some making gestures to ward off evil, averting their eyes. Within the walls, the ground was churned, muddy, the rain of the previous nights' storm draining slowly from the heavy clay. Dean wrinkled his nose at the mixture of scents that assailed them; greasy cooking, the sharp, acrid reek of hot metal, the damp stench of the mud, the overwhelming smell of manure from the livestock held in pens around the walls.

"A can of air freshener wouldn't go amiss right now," he muttered to himself.

From the small square at the gate, three narrow tracks led outward, to other parts of the village. Sam looked up as a group of people came from the third, steepest track. The man who led them was big, although not as tall as Dean or himself, he was significantly heavier through the shoulders and chest, the muscles of his arms massive, the skin covered with knotted scars. Over leather leggings and vest, he wore a bearskin cloak, held at the throat by a round, intricately worked gold pin. His hair was long and black, his eyes a startling light grey, bright against the tanned skin of his face.

"_Mokharuli var, rom sop'el glubinnogo l'da. T'k'ven mogzaurobis shoridan?"_ The man's voice was deep, the words guttural and harsh-sounding.

"Cas? A little help here." Dean looked back at the man, hoping his expression conveyed friendly interest.

Castiel looked up. _"Ch'emi up'alo, ch'ven imogzaura ch'rdiloet'. Ch'ven dacherili am shtormis gamo maghali ugheltekhili da schirdeba t'k'veni stumart'moqvareoba."_

The man nodded abruptly. _"T'k'ven mivesalmebit' ak'. Ch'emi sakhli shenia."_ He turned to the gathered crowd. _"Inozemna dopomoha. Tse moi__̈__ hosti."_

The people around them nodded and began to walk away, going back to their business. The man turned to the young woman who stood beside him. _"Ch'veni sastumro aris daavadebuli. Miighet' Valenis."_

She nodded and left, moving quickly and gracefully through the mud and standing water.

He looked back to Castiel. _"Menya zovut Vasilii__̆__ . YA lider etoi__̆__ derevni, eto klan. Vy zdes' v bezopasnosti, pod moyei__̆__ zashchitoi__̆__, nikto ne budet vredit' vam ili vashim tovarishcham."_

Castiel bowed his head. _"Spasibo, Gospodi Vasilii__̆__. My v dolgu pered vamidolg blagodarnosti."_

Vasiliĭ smiled suddenly. _"YA ne gospodin, moi__̆__ drug. Nu, vy ne ochen' khorosho. U nas yest' kvalifitsirovannyi__̆__ tselitel'. Ona budet videt' vas v blizhai__̆__shyee vremya."_

He gestured at the path that led up the hill toward the stone building. Castiel walked carefully through the mud, using the staff to secure his footing on the slippery ground. Dean and Sam looked at each other and followed him.

"Cas?" Dean hissed at the angel as they walked up the hill. "What was that all about?"

Castiel sighed. "The leader here is Vasiliĭ. He's the one I was speaking with. The dialect is Russian, so we're further north than I'd thought." He shook slightly as the climb steepened. "I told him we were travellers, in need of shelter. He has welcomed us into his house."

Sam whistled softly. "Nice going."

Dean shook his head. "I thought you said you had the language covered. It'll be too easy for us to cause offence if Sam and I don't know what's going on."

Castiel nodded. "When I can sit and rest, Dean."

* * *

The stone building was larger than it had looked from below. The door leading into it was more like a gate, bound and sheeted in iron, its enormous weight balanced on hinges that were set into the stone frame surrounding it.

"No shortage of iron around here," Sam commented.

"No. There are plenty of metals and minerals in these mountains," Castiel agreed. He hesitated before the door, waiting for Vasiliĭ to precede them. Sam glanced at him. The grey undertone had returned to his skin.

Vasiliĭ walked past them and gestured to another woman, tending the fire.

"_Voz'mite ikh v nomera. Oni nuzhdayut·sya v pishche, teple. Eto moi gosti, oni dolzhny byt' khorosho lechit·sya."_

The woman nodded quickly and gestured to them, passing through a door to the right of the great hall's hearth.

Castiel nodded and followed her, Dean and Sam trailing behind him. The room to which they were led was a large square. Light came in through a series of high, narrow slits along the south wall. The furniture was minimal, piles of skins lay over mounds of straw, a crude table, long, but low, sat in front of the hearth. The woman moved quickly to the hearth, lighting the kindling and feeding the flames as the fire became established. She turned and nodded to them, closing the door behind her as she left.

Dean helped Castiel onto one of the mounds of furs. He looked at Cas' face, his brows drawn together as he saw the tension and pain in his friend's eyes.

"What do you need, Cas?" he said quietly, laying the staff down beside the bed.

"Rest, mostly. Food, when it comes." Castiel closed his eyes briefly. "Lean close, Dean."

He raised his hand as Dean bent toward him. His fingers touched the hollow at the base of Dean's throat once, then the temple. He nodded slowly.

"Sam." Sam walked over and knelt beside his brother. Castiel touched his throat and temple, his chest hitching at the effort.

The door to the room opened again, and the woman returned, carrying several platters of hot food. She set them onto the low table.

"Eat. Valenis will be here soon to look after your friend," she said, her voice soft and husky. Dean looked at Sam, his brows rising.

"Thank you," Sam said slowly. She nodded and left the room, closing the door again.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Dean helped Castiel to sit up as Sam brought over a bowl of steaming meat and grains. There were no implements to eat the food with; Castiel dipped his fingers into the bowl and scooped out a mouthful. Dean looked down at the food. The surface of the stew held an oily glaze, the fat rendered from the chunks of the meat. The smell was delicious, a delicate aroma of herbs and spices overlaying the deeper smells of lamb and the grains and his mouth filled with saliva in anticipation.

Castiel ate fast, and drank the broth from the bowl when the larger parts were gone. He closed his eyes, feeling the food heat him from the inside. Dean took the bowl back to the table and refilled it, eating quickly as the food cooled. The fire was slowly heating the room, and he could feel his eyelids drooping slightly as the combination of hot food and the warming air gave him a feeling of safety, of sanctuary reached.

Sam sampled each of the dishes, trying to identify the ingredients. The meat had been roasted in some, boiled in others, he thought it was lamb or goat. Of the grains, he recognised oats and barley, wheat and rye; cattails, a potato-like tuber and the roots of wild onions. He looked a plate of greens, too mushy to identify them, he reached out and tasted a leaf, his eyes widening in surprise as he recognised the taste of spinach – or a spinach-like plant, at any rate.

The door opened, and two women entered the room. The younger one was the woman that had stood beside Vasiliĭ earlier. She was small and slender, her hair black, her eyes the same startling light grey of the leader's. Daughter? Sam wondered. The other woman was older, her smooth skin tanned and weathered from many seasons outdoors. She stood a little taller than her companion; her long hair was the colour of maple wood, thick and bound into a plait that hung down her back. She walked to the bed that Castiel lay upon, and Sam saw that her eyes were a clear, bright blue, unusual for this region. She glanced at him and then down at Castiel, laying her fingers gently on the angel's forehead.

"How long has he been like this?" she asked, her gaze on Castiel's face.

Sam looked at Dean. "About two days. It was a very hard trip over the passes."

A smile curved her lips. "Was it?"

"Ruane, I need hot water." She looked at the younger woman, who nodded and left.

"Now. Tell me the truth." Valenis looked from Sam's face to Dean's. "No physical effort did this to him. He was working a great spell, wasn't he?"

Sam nodded reluctantly, hoping that working spells wasn't punishable by death in this place, this time. "Yes, he brought us here, from a long way away. He was trying to stop something terrible from happening but the … spell ... was … meddled with at a critical moment. When we woke up, we were at the top of the mountain," He gestured to the north. "And Castiel was like this."

Valenis nodded. "He has undergone great strain, his head, his heart … he will need a lot of rest, and care, to counteract these effects." She looked at them, her eyes taking in the differences in them … the strange clothing, their smooth skin, in contrast with the rough calluses on their hands, even the way they wore their hair was markedly different from any other she'd seen … and she had travelled widely from her native home to this place.

"I have travelled from Nóregr to the deserts of the east and here, and I have never seen such as you," she said quietly. "You must come from far indeed."

Sam looked down, searching for words that might make sense to her. "From over the sea, the great sea to the west, that stretches to the horizon and beyond."

Valenis bit her lip thoughtfully as she considered what he said, then she nodded. "That is far."

Ruane returned with an iron pot of boiling water. The steam rose from it, and the handle was wrapped in several layers of fur and hide, protecting her hands from the heat. She set it down on the table, and Valenis rose, pulling several packets from the pockets of her inner garments. She opened them and tipped the contents into the boiling water, and the air was immediately scented by the strong smells of the dried herbs, the mix too complex for Sam to recognise. The wrappings were very thin flexible sheets of a near translucent material; she folded them neatly and returned to her pockets.

"Bring three cups, Ruane," she asked the girl quietly, and spread her hands above the pot, her lips moving soundlessly, her eyes closed over the steaming water. Sam glanced at Dean, both recognising what she was doing.

"Are you a witch?" Dean asked, a trace of unease edging his voice.

Valenis looked up, opening her eyes. "Witch? Sorcerer? No, healer." She gestured at the pot.

"These herbs promote healing, calming; they strengthen the heart and the spirit, so that the body can heal faster. The knowledge is not secret, not hidden. Most villages have healers." She looked at Dean. "Does the village where you're from not have one?"

He shook his head. "Not really. Not in the same way." He thought of trying to explain doctors and hospitals to her, never mind insurance, and decided against it.

Ruane returned to the room, holding three cups. She passed them to Valenis, who dipped each of them into the brewed tea, and passed one each to Dean and Sam.

"Drink. It is not poison, not to make you sleep. Just to strengthen you." She lifted the third cup out and knelt beside Castiel, putting her arm behind his shoulders and lifting him higher. His eyes fluttered open as the cup filled with steaming liquid touched his lips. He drank as Valenis tipped the cup, knowing what it contained, knowing his vessel needed all the help it could get.

Valenis looked into his eyes, watching the pupils contract slightly in the light.

"You need to sleep," she said quietly. He nodded agreement, letting his lids drop again.

Sam swallowed the tea, surprised at the taste. It was very light, neither sweet nor tart, but somewhere in between. And it was refreshing. He looked back to the kettle.

Valenis saw the direction of his gaze. She smiled. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

He nodded sheepishly.

"Rest. You can have another cup when you wake, and make sure he gets one as well."

"Will he be all right?" Sam looked at Castiel's still frame, now tucked under the softness of a wolf pelt blanket.

"Yes. In time." She rose to her feet. "I'll come back in a few hours. Vasiliĭ will want to talk to you as well, I'm sure." She glanced at Ruane, who waited by the table. "Ruane will stay here. Ask her if you want anything."

"Thank you," Dean said, his feelings still mixed, but the suspicions fading away.

She smiled at him. "You must be a warrior. Only warriors are so suspicious of healers."

He turned away uncomfortably. She looked at Sam, her eyes warm and considering. "And you, I think, are a scholar. You think things through before deciding."

Sam turned slightly red. It was a partly accurate description, he supposed. She looked down at Castiel. "But I cannot guess at what your friend is. Perhaps he will tell me when he is rested."

She turned and left the room. Sam looked at Ruane.

"Do you want to sit?" He gestured to the pile of skins beside him. "You could tell us something of your … uh … village?"

She nodded shyly and walked to the skins, sinking onto them gracefully, tucking her legs beneath her.

"What do you want to know?" She looked up at him, and he noticed that her irises were a silvery grey, rimmed around with a darker grey.

* * *

Against the stone walls, the red light of sunset stood in squares. Dean stretched out, glancing at the fire and noticing that it was low, the embers still glowing but the heat was fading from the room. He moved aside the thick bearskin that covered him and rolled onto his knees, going to the pile of logs beside the wide hearth, and picking up two. A shower of sparks erupted as the first one hit the hot coals, and the first licks of flame consumed the dry wood. He placed the second log more carefully and rubbed his hands as the fire caught, the flames hot and yellow now and rising.

Sam slept under a pile of skins, his chest rising and falling slowly. On the other side of him, Castiel also slept, the firelight lending a false ruddiness to his skin. Dean rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the sharp prickle of the stubble along his jaw. He wondered how easy it was to shave with a knife blade.

There was a soft knock on the door, and he walked over to it, opening it and looking down at the woman who stood there, holding two bowls, with what appeared to be scraps of cloth hanging from them.

She looked back at him, her face expressionless. Her hair was a deep shade of red, like heartwood, her eyes green, like his own, paler but the irises rimmed with a darker colour.

"Valenis sent me to see how you are," she said when the silence had stretched too long. "My name is Alis."

She walked past him, into the room, setting one bowl on to the table and carrying the other to far side of the room. She walked back to the hearth unhurriedly, and took a burning twig from the flames, lighting the wick of the oil lamp on the table, and crossing to the other and lighting it. The light the lamps gave was a rich gold, and although the edges of the room remained in shadow, around the table and along the other side were bright with it. Dean started to close the door, and stopped, opening it again as two men, carrying a large copper pot of steaming water, came in. Alis gestured to the other side of the room, where the second lamp burned. Dean watched them carry the pot to the lamp, setting it down close by.

The men walked out, nodding to him as they passed. Alis took several homespun cloths from her belt and handed them to him. He looked down at them for a moment and then back to her.

The corners of her mouth tucked in slightly as she realised that he had no idea what he was supposed to do with the cloths, or the tub of steaming water.

"For washing, to get clean," she explained slowly, as if to a child. Dean felt a heat rise up his face. He scowled at her.

"Yeah. All right." He started to close the door again. Alis turned and walked away, but he heard her low laugh as the door closed.

He walked to the tub, tossing the cloths over the edge. It was too small to climb into, he thought with a moment's regret. He bent down, as he noticed the simple rectangular bars beside the tub, and picked one up. Soap, he thought, feeling the slickness against his fingers. He lifted it and sniffed warily. It had been very lightly scented with a herb, but otherwise smelled like soap.

He walked back to the beds and crouched beside Sam. "Hey, wake up. It's bath time."

Sam opened his eyes slowly. Despite the bed's primitiveness, he felt rested and relaxed, not even a twinge from any of his muscles. The straw mats and furs were more comfortable than he would have imagined.

"What?" He looked at his brother. Dean stood, gesturing to the corner.

"They delivered us a tub of hot water, some soap and wash cloths. Guess it's a not so subtle hint that we stink."

Sam sat up, looking around. He saw the steaming pot in the corner and shrugged, tossing back the pelts and rolling onto his feet. The lamp provided good light in the corner, despite being set on the floor. He looked at Dean.

Another knock on the door saved them from having to discuss who was going first. Dean opened it. Ruane held a bundle of clothes in her arms. Alis stood behind her with another bundle.

"Do you want to wash your … clothes?" Ruane asked, walking past him into the room. "You will be more comfortable in clean clothing?"

Dean looked at Sam. "Uh … yeah, sure."

Alis walked past him and put her bundle on the end of the low table, away from the lamp. The two women stood, waiting.

Sam felt his ears turning red as he realised that they were waiting for their clothing. "Um … yeah. We can wash these ourselves, there's no need for you to do it."

Dean looked from his brother to the women, catching up. "Yeah, we're used to doing it. We'll be fine."

Alis looked at Ruane, her lips pressed tightly together. "I think they would prefer to be without our help."

"It seems that way," Ruane agreed demurely. "We'll leave you, then."

Dean smiled uncomfortably as they walked past him again. He shut the door, looking for some means to lock it. The door fit smoothly into the frame, but was without any kind of lock.

Sam started to strip down, as fast as he could. He dunked the cloth into the hot water and lathered the soap, his back to his brother.

Dean snorted and walked to the table, picking up the clothing from the pile. The homespun shirt was soft, and light. The pants were of goatskin leather, soft and pliable, expertly tanned. And they weren't shiny, more of a matt mottled grey and brown. He exhaled loudly. Fancy dress was still fancy dress.

He was looking forward to seeing what they'd come up with for Sam, who stood almost a foot above everyone they'd met.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

"You are better?" Vasiliĭ asked Castiel, solicitously. "Valenis was able to help?"

"Yes. Thank you." Castiel looked around the big room curiously. "The tea was strengthening. She tells me I need to rest as much as I can."

"Yes, sleep is the key to recovery, when the head and the heart are involved." The leader nodded sagely. "She healed me, after a battle. Pulled the axe out of my head and got me back on my feet."

Castiel looked at him, blinking at the mental image. "I am glad that you have such a good healer here."

Vasiliĭ looked around the people sitting, eating, drinking in his hall. "I have good people here. We might not be here much longer though."

He turned to Castiel. "What news have you of the invasions to the south?"

Castiel inclined his head, trying to remember this period, who had been invading whom.

"You mean the Xiongnu nomads?" He frowned, thinking that they had come a bit later as an invading power.

"No, the cursed Scythians. They have been attacking this year. Two years now the harvests have failed in the lower mountains, near the sea. It started then, but the attacks are becoming more frequent this year. Not even the long winter has stopped them." Vasiliĭ picked up a leg of roast fowl, ripping the flesh away with his teeth as he took his fury out on the food.

Castiel wondered about that. It wasn't in his experience of history, and he'd spent a thousand years not too distant from here, watching the rise and fall of civilisations surrounding the Mediterranean and Black Seas. Had they changed something, being thrust from the future into this time?

"It is impolite of me to show my anger at the table. I apologise, Casteel." Vasiliĭ lowered his gaze, ashamed of his outburst in front of a guest.

"No need, Vasiliĭ. I am neither offended nor upset. I am sorry, we've come from the north and there is no news of attacks in the south." Castiel hastened to smooth over any ill feeling. He picked up his glass and sipped the warm, spiced wine.

* * *

Dean sat opposite Sam, at a table further down the hall. The plain homespun shirt was comfortable against his skin, the leather vest a little tight over the shoulders, a little short in the torso. The pants were comfortable but on the short side. The soft leather boots that went over them covered the gap, fortunately. Sam wasn't so lucky. Although Ruane had brought the biggest clothes she could find, almost everything was tight, and too short for his limbs. He noticed that in spite of that, Sam was getting a lot of attention from the women in the hall.

Beside him, Alis leaned close and whispered in his ear. "They are wondering if your brother is as big below the belt as he is above."

He looked at her, one brow rising. "Really? I thought he'd scare people."

She laughed. "He might scare the men, but not the women." She looked at a group of girls, younger than herself, but counted as women by the village. "They think you're very interesting too."

Dean followed her glance, seeing the group of girls at a table on the other side of the big room. They all looked to be on the wrong side of fifteen, and were staring at him and talking to each other. He looked away. "A bit young for me."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what is your preferred age for a woman?"

He glanced at her, wondering at her sudden interest. "Older than them, younger than …" He looked around, and saw a matronly woman dishing out food to a group of children. "… that lady over there."

"That's a wide field." She smiled at him. "Are you a warrior? In your homeland?"

He frowned. It was a dramatic sort of word, not one he could envisage in connection with himself, really. "Sort of. I guess."

"You don't know?"

"Yes. I am." He gave up trying to make the finer distinctions. The concepts of a hunter, separate to everyday life, didn't exist here. Everyone was a hunter. What he and Sam did - had done - would do in the future - had been more like soldiering anyway.

"What do you do?" he asked her suddenly, wanting to find a topic that was safe – safer.

"I work with my father." She looked around and pointed to him, a huge man with deeply tanned skin, arms like hams, sitting next to the healer woman, Valenis, at a table close by the roaring hearth. "And sometimes with my mother."

Dean looked over at them. "Valenis is your mother?"

She nodded. "She wants me to follow her, to become a healer. But I think I'm better at making weapons." Her smile faded away. "And using them," she added under her breath.

"Your father works with metal? Like a blacksmith?" Dean tried to remember the term for someone who made weaponry.

"Yes, he makes the wheels, the pots, everything to do with metal. Including the swords, spears, arrowheads and shields for our own warriors."

* * *

Sam was aware of the looks and whispered conversations and giggles from the women in the hall. Ruane had been very frank about it when they'd entered. He sat facing Dean and Alis, his back to the rest of the room, feeling the back of his neck and his ears burning.

"What does Alis do?" he asked Ruane, taking another bread roll from the basket between them, and spreading the soft goat's cheese over it.

"She is a hunter, like you." Ruane sipped her wine and watched the man beside her. She had told him about the other women to increase his pride, maybe make him laugh. It had not worked. He was stiff and tense, and although the combination of oil lamps and firelight made it difficult to be sure, she thought that he might be embarrassed by their attentions.

He wasn't like any other man in the village, or in the nearby villages she visited sometimes with her father. He was soft-spoken and courteous, and he seemed older than the skin of his face and hands suggested. Valenis had called him a scholar. The healer was never wrong about people.

"How old are you?" she asked him.

"Twenty seven." He took a bite of the bread, savouring it. He'd thought that they might not be able to have bread here, but clearly the culture was established. The roll was heavier than modern loaves, but soft and delicious.

He became aware that she was staring at him in shock. "What?"

"You are twenty seven?" She looked at her father. This was his thirty fifth year. He was only eight years older than the man beside her. Sam looked from her to her father and back.

"Yeah." He wondered suddenly if he'd made a mistake. "What's wrong with that?"

She shook her head, looking down at her glass. "I thought you were younger."

Sam frowned at the implication. "Where I come from, people live to great ages, and I am considered young."

"Oh." Ruane looked up at him again. "Do you have a wife? Children? In your … village?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Are you … have you taken a vow? Or … are you …," Ruane hesitated, worried about giving offence, "ah … do you prefer … men?"

Sam shook his head. "No. No. I … uh … had a wife," he apologised mentally to Jess. "She was killed."

"I'm so sorry." Ruane turned her head away. It explained the sadness at the back of his eyes, she thought.

"It was a long time ago, but I loved her very much." He looked down at the plate.

Ruane nodded.

Dean looked across the table at his brother. Sam looked uncomfortable, and not entirely due to the ill-fit of his clothing. He glanced at Ruane. She seemed uncomfortable as well, and he wondered what they'd been talking about to make them both look as if they wished they were elsewhere. He stretched slightly, his stomach full of meat and bread and wine. He suddenly remembered the tracks they'd seen outside of the cave and turned to Alis.

"We saw tracks that we haven't seen before, higher in the mountains."

She looked at him, her attention caught. "What did they look like?"

He thought about the spoor. "Two-legged, a long narrow foot but with four toes, not five. And claws extending from each toe."

She nodded. "Werewolf."

He raised an eyebrow, wondering if he understood her correctly. "Four toes, not five," he repeated.

She looked at him. "Yes. After the transformation one of the toes is … absorbed … back into the body."

"Transformation?" He looked at her. "In my ti–," he corrected himself quickly, "land, the werewolf transformation is mainly mental, not physical."

"Really?" Alis looked at him thoughtfully. "That's strange. Here the transformation is complete. The man becomes a wolf, although he often walks upright, he can run on all fours as a wolf does. The bones … change, melt, almost … it looks more like a wolf than a man."

"Huh." He considered that. Another thought struck him. "So what other kinds of monsters are around here? That you've hunted?"

"Ah … vampyre, of course, there's a nest to the east but we've never had enough men to go and clean it out and they come in the summer, when there are more likely to be travellers in the woods. Werewolf. My father said there were giants and trolls in these mountains less than thirty years ago, although I've never seen one myself." She thought about the creatures that populated the area, those she'd hunted personally, and those she'd heard about.

"Whisperers, wyverns. My uncle slew a dragon near his village to the south five years ago, but we haven't seen any since then. There was a black sorcerer far to the north, I don't know if he still lives. He raised a lot of things, monsters that people say are still around that area, caused a lot of trouble." She looked back at him, taking in his expression. "Don't you have monsters like those in your homeland?"

He sighed. "Some, not quite that much variety. What are Whisperers?"

"Undead creatures, they drink the life force of people who are called to them. They can take human form, and they can see into your mind, see the memories of loved ones, of family. They can take the voice of a person and make you think that they are there, that they need your help. Silver or iron kills them, if it is thrust through the joint where the neck joins the spine." She reached out and touched him lightly on the large vertebrae.

Crocottas, he thought, same tune, different title. "And wyverns?"

"They are reptiles, but warm-blooded like their larger cousins, dragons. A bit easier to kill, although they spit acid, rather than breathing fire."

"Dragons really breathe fire?" He looked across at Sam, hoping he was hearing this, but his brother was looking away, talking to Ruane.

"Of course, what did you think?" She picked up her cup and drank the wine. "It's a little tricky to kill a dragon. It takes two, at least, a decoy and the swordsman. They have a powerful magic, so you can't look into their eyes, or listen to them."

Magical dragons, possibility of giants and trolls – _what the hell was a troll?_ – plus the usual round of suspects, he thought, that's great. He revised the odds of their survival until Cas recovered down drastically.

"It is good that you saw the tracks of the werewolf. It was a full moon last night, and the night before. Tonight is the last chance to kill the werewolf until the moon is full again. Will you come with us?" She looked at him expectantly. "You're a hunter, yes?"

"Yeah." He looked at Sam. "Sam, they're hunting a werewolf tonight. We should go with them."

Sam looked from his brother to Alis and back. "Right. Tonight."

Dean kept his face expressionless. "Apparently, werewolves fully transform here."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Into a wolf?"

Dean nodded. "That's what made the tracks outside of the cave."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "So a wolf that walks on two legs."

"Not always," Alis interjected. "But yes, sometimes."

"Silver to the heart, right?" Dean looked at her.

"Yes, we have plenty of arrows if you need some."

His face fell. Bows and arrows. That would be fun. His father had trained him and Sam in archery when they were young, believing that they should have an understanding of all the weaponry they might need, but it had been a good fifteen years since he'd last picked up a bow. The bullets in the auto were ordinary steel-jacket, and would be more likely to piss off a werewolf than do any damage.

Sam followed his thoughts. "If we can talk to Alis' father about finding lead and casting it, or silver for that matter, we can probably make something that works. The recipe for gunpowder is pretty simple."

"Better do that then, tomorrow. For tonight we'd better hope that we still remember how to shoot with a bow."

Sam nodded. Beside him, Ruane looked at his profile. A scholar who was also a hunter. This man got more interesting the longer he was around.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

The moon was still round and huge as it rose through the clear skies in the east. Dean stood beside Alis outside the gates of the village wall, the bow strung and ready in his hand, a soft leather quiver full of silver-headed arrows slung over his shoulder and chest.

Sam held his own bow and quiver, shivering slightly in the freezing night air. He wore a roughly sewn wolfskin vest, but it didn't quite meet across his chest, and he'd had to leave the front open. The village weaver, Guin, had promised to make him more clothing as soon as possible, looking at the gap between the bottom of the pants and his boots, and between the length of the sleeve and his hands.

Vasiliĭ looked around at the men and women surrounding him. They were twelve tonight and he had already decided that they should split into smaller parties, to take each direction from the defile where the strangers had seen the tracks. The werewolf had to be a man too, for three weeks of the month he was a farmer, or a hunter, or maybe from a village nearby. It didn't matter. Tonight they would have a chance to stop it, to kill it.

Sam was teamed with Rascha and Lyre. They were experienced hunters. Rascha had grown up further to the south, his village in the lower ranges, close to Armenia. His dialect was different, but Sam found he could understand him perfectly. Lyre was a couple of years older than Ruane, a small wiry woman, with dark brown hair, bound tightly in a doubled over plait, and clear pale brown eyes. She had not been born here either, but her village was only a few miles away.

Dean had been put with Alis and Elbek. He looked around at the faces of the hunters, seeing calm expressions, attention to detail, particularly of their weapons; strong faces, strong bodies. He smiled to himself. Hunters were hunters, wherever they were and in whatever time.

They walked out of the valley in single file, splitting up where the forest trail came out into the meadow. The moonlight was bright and bled the colour from the landscape, creating the chiaroscuro of a stark black and white photograph. Dean was a little uneasy at being parted from Sam, although he found himself trusting the hunters with his brother. He just didn't like not having Sam's back. But Vasiliĭ had put the two strangers with those who knew the land, to minimise the danger to them, so he couldn't change things around now.

"You've hunted the werewolf before, yes?" Elbek came to stand beside him, looking into the darkness of the forest.

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "Once or twice."

Elbek gave him a wide grin. "We watch out for each other, the bite is very bad, it will turn you even if the wolf is killed."

Dean nodded. He knew that from bitter experience.

* * *

They entered the forest as the moon reached its zenith above them. The forest had been intimidating during the day; now, Dean found the press of the trees ominous, the darkness under the thick branches was unevenly dappled with thin beams of moonlight only where it managed to penetrate. The forest was alive with sound, with rustles and scratches, the creak of branches and the scurryings of the small nocturnal inhabitants. He found himself thinking of the list of creatures Alis had recited earlier. He hadn't believed in dragons or wyverns or trolls then, but walking over the thick carpeting of humus, he found his imagination was all too ready to conjure them up, hiding behind the great boles of the trees that stretched away to either side of the narrow path they were walking.

* * *

Sam followed Lyre north-east along a game trail, Rascha had point. He walked partially sideways, watching behind them as well as to the sides, every sense on high alert as they walked in the darkness. His eyes had adjusted well, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that his two companions could see much better than he could in the dark shadows.

They had been walking for nearly a half hour, along the game trails, and Sam had lost all sense of direction when they heard the ululation. The eerie call rose and fell, clearly in one moment, muffled or distorted in the next. Much further away a pack of wolves answered the call with their music. The werewolf's howl rose again, and this time, Sam thought he could pinpoint the direction. He stepped closer to Lyre, and pointed to the west. She nodded.

They turned off the trail they were using, finding a narrower path that led west, deeper into the forest.

* * *

Dean stopped as the howl echoed down the valley. He and Alis turned together, and Elbek led them to a rocky path that would take them southwest, toward the sound. He could feel his heart accelerating, his nerves prickling as they picked their way across an open clearing, the moonlight casting black shadows under the rocky outcroppings. He reached back, taking an arrow from the quiver and nocking it onto the string, his fingers curled around arrow shaft and bow as he kept walking. The trail led back into the forest, and he closed his eyes briefly, trying to get them to adjust to the blackness more swiftly.

Elbek slowed as they reached a branching in the narrow path, much deeper within the forest. He stopped and listened, turning his head slightly from one side to the other. Dean did not have to be told that the sudden silence in the forest could only mean one thing. He turned slightly, aware of Alis at his back, turning the other way, their eyes wide as they searched the darkness for any sign of movement, their ears straining to hear any sound. He shallowed his breathing and stood completely still. The only sound he could hear was the beat of his heart, thudding in his ears.

The creature came out of the darkness between two trees like a bullet. Dean caught a confused glimpse of glowing eyes, and long canine fangs as he threw himself to the side, sweeping up the bow and drawing the arrow as he fell, the draw cramped but the arrow flying true, burying itself in the ribs of the wolf, behind the shoulder.

Elbek had had more warning, and his arrow penetrated the chest as Alis spun around and fired into its throat. The savage snarling of the beast as the arrowheads worked their way deeper into the flesh ceased as Alis' second shot punched through the heart.

Dean was on his feet, a second arrow nocked, as the werewolf stilled. He looked down at it in bemusement, seeing the long, deformed body begin its transformation back to human, the bones twisting and shrinking, the thick pelt falling from the pores, the long canine snout receding into the skull, becoming a human nose and jaw again. This was the stuff of the stories and the movies, alright, he thought. The eyes were half-open, and he knelt beside the head, his thumb lifting an eyelid. The lambent glow was almost gone, the irises changing back from the yellowish green to a dark brown, as the eyeballs glazed over in death.

They heard crashing through the trees to the south, and all three brought up their bows fluidly, arrows drawn back, ready to fly.

"It's us," Rascha's deep voice called from the shadows, and Dean noticed that although Alis and Elbek lowered the bows slightly, they kept them nocked and drawn, until Rascha, Lyre and Sam picked their way out of the undergrowth and stood on the trail.

"Who was it?" Lyre stepped forward, looking down at the body of the man. "Does anyone recognise him?"

Elbek shook his head. "There was some talk of a traveller, last year. Passed through Tolan's village. They didn't see him again, but didn't think anything of it; travellers don't usually come back anyway." He looked down at the body at his feet. "He was from the far south, the desert-lands. Could have been him."

The man's skin was tanned, but dark underneath the tan as well, his hair long and black and straight. His eyes were deep-set, almost hooded, under strong black brows, his nose had the characteristic curve of the desert people. Alis nodded.

"At least we won't have to tell anyone from here that their father or husband is dead," she said quietly, and turned away, pulling a long horn from beneath her cloak. Taking a deep breath, she put the narrow end to her lips and blew, the long, mournful note rising high at the end of her breath, above the forest, into the night.

From the north and east, answering notes sounded, and she replaced the horn on her belt. She turned back to the body and pulled out her arrows, bracing her foot against the chest to free the sharp, barbed arrowheads. Dean watched her, feeling his stomach turn slightly as he noted her matter of fact approach. Then he considered the reality. Arrowheads, especially those made of silver, took time and skill to make. Retrieving them was the only option. He stepped toward the body, sliding his hand down the shaft of his own arrow and gripping it tightly just above the entry point. He pulled and felt the barbed head catching on the organs and flesh under the skin, his lips compressing as he exerted more strength and finally got it free of the body. He could feel sweat beading his upper lip, and he turned away, swallowing, as he wiped the arrowhead free of blood before he returned it to the quiver.

They followed another game trail down the mountain, pausing at a small stream to drink, then continuing on to the meadow. Vasiliĭ and the others were waiting for them in the moonlit pasture. Dean stood beside Sam as Elbek recounted the killing of the werewolf, half-listening to the account, as he thought about what exactly they were in for here.

Monsters, and lots of them apparently. And not just the ones they were used to, knew how to deal with. Limited ammunition and a steep learning curve ahead on using the weapons that were available. He'd been glad that the training had held, despite years not using it, but it hadn't escaped him that it took him twice as long to aim and fire and get another arrow onto the string as it had Elbek and Alis. Nor that his ability to hunt in the woods had depended on their knowledge, their experience. He could hold up his end – just – but they were better hunters than he and Sam were and catch up would be hell.

He turned his thoughts to what Sam had said earlier. If they could build a press, and make bullets, it would make a huge difference to their usefulness. A gun was faster than a bow and arrow, and a single bullet, made of silver, could have taken that werewolf right down in a fraction of the time it had taken the three of them to do so with the arrows. He frowned slightly, wondering what he'd need, if Alis' father would have the tools and materials. The calibration would be a bitch. He didn't think these people habitually thought of measurements under an inch. But he could get around that.

The hunters were moving, and he followed them, his mind considering the problem of making bullets, and maybe guns – not autos but a revolver should be within his skill levels, or a bolt-action rifle.

Sam glanced at his brother, head bowed in thought, brows drawn together. He could guess what Dean was thinking about readily enough. Guns wouldn't be around for another thousand years at the earliest, more like twelve hundred, he thought. It would give them – and the villagers – a big advantage if they could recreate them now.

* * *

The gates stood closed and barred when they reached the village, but several men stood on the palisade and the sounds of the bars rising inside started as they walked toward them. Flaming torches lit the wall and there were two fires set on either side of the gates on the ground outside it. Dean and Sam noticed that the night watch all wore some type of armour, the thigh-length hauberk, made from iron wire, or thickened, hardened leather, reinforced by iron plate over the sword arm and around the torso, and all kept their swords in their hands.

Times were harsh – are harsh, Sam thought. Despite that there was a lot of laughter and love between the members of the community. Perhaps that was a necessary part of living in a time when death lurked so near to everyone. Petty fights and trivial envy didn't seem to be a part of their daily lives.

The long hall was still lit, the fires burning steadily and several tables set out with bowls of stew and platters of flatbread. The hunters shed their weapons near the door and sat down at the tables, eating the food quickly. Dean looked up and saw Valenis standing to one side of the doorway that led to their room. He finished his mouthful and stood, walking over to her.

"Judging from my daughter's satisfied expression, you found and killed the werewolf," she said to him as he neared. He glanced back to the table and saw Alis laughing, Elbek leaning close to her. He looked back to Valenis and smiled.

"Yeah, she got the heart shot." He looked down the hallway next to her. "How's Cas?"

"He is better. Stronger." She looked at him. "He will recover."

"Good." He looked down for a moment, then back to her. "He's my friend."

She nodded and smiled. "I know."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Sam stretched out on the bed of soft furs, feeling unaccustomed aches in his muscles from the long walk of the previous evening. He'd thought he and his brother were fit, and they were by modern standards, he supposed, just not by the standards of the hunters they'd followed last night.

In a world where even horses were a luxury, where most people got around, over vast distances, on their own two feet, he and Dean were pampered. The thought brought a wry smile to his face.

It faded a moment later as he turned his mind to the knotty problem of making bullets, even casting lead shot, in a world that wouldn't have accurate measuring devices for at least another thousand years, and realistically more like two. The guns they had were both automatics, 9mm and although robust, were likely to be reasonably choosy about the diameter of the bullets they fired, no matter how they were made. He thought that, for the moment at least, it would be quicker to regain their skills with the bow than to fool around with bullet making. Dean was going to be disappointed.

If he remembered correctly there was a commercially viable lead/silver deposit in the Caucasus Mountains, somewhere south of where they were now. But he'd need help from Alis' father and Vasiliĭ to be sure. Lead was easy to extract from the raw ore. And it was usually found with silver and copper, which would help with discovering its location.

He rolled over and stood up. The homespun shirt he wore had already been torn at the sleeves and across the chest from ill-advised movements beyond what the material could cope with. He hoped that Guin would be quick at coming up with replacements. The clothing was comfortable, at least, the yarn woven tightly with a lot of stretch to it, and the leather tanned beautifully, soft and well-worked.

The fire had died down through the night and he walked over to the heap of logs beside the hearth to add a few more pieces, stirring the coals as he dropped them on top. Taking the cool iron pot from the table, he hung it carefully above the flames; Valenis had said that Cas needed several cups a day and drinking it hot was more pleasant than when it was cold.

He looked down at the angel, still sleeping deeply in his nest of furs and woven blankets. He did look better, stronger. The grey undertone had gone completely from his skin, and his eyes were clear again, no longer bloodshot as they'd been when they'd arrived. He had a feeling that Cas hadn't told them exactly how badly he'd been injured. Valenis' concern was real, and she wouldn't let the angel out of bed for more than an hour or so a day. He wondered how long it would be before they could make the attempt to get home.

* * *

Dean woke an hour later, looking around the room groggily. Cas was still a lump in the middle of his fur bed, but Sam had gone. He stretched and grimaced as the stiffness of his muscles reminded him of hiking up the mountains and through the forest and pulling a fifty pound draw from ground level. He shook his head slightly.

He rolled onto his side, yawning widely. The fire had been re-laid and the iron pot of Valenis' tea was hanging to one side, close enough to the flames to keep it warm, but not so close that it would boil. Sam had obviously been up for a bit.

Throwing back the skins, he got to his feet and took a cup from the table, dipping it into the deep brown tea in the pot. Despite his initial misgivings about it, it was a pleasant tasting tea, and seemed to have the restorative properties of coffee, without the after effects. He stripped off his clothing and broke the thin scrim of ice in the large washing tub, washing his face and upper body in the icy cold water, rubbing himself dry quickly and pulling the homespun shirt and soft leather pants back on. Spring came slowly to the mountains and the night temperatures were always below freezing.

The door opened slowly and Sam came in, carrying a couple of bowls of steaming porridge to the table. Behind him, Ruane carried two more, laid along her arm, and a jug of steaming liquid.

"Feeling stiff?" Sam grinned at him. Dean grimaced.

"Makes you realise we spend too much time in the car," he agreed, walking over to the table. "Breakfast?"

"Porridge." Sam nodded. Ruane seated herself at the table, and Sam sat beside her. Dean looked over at Cas again.

"Do we wake him?"

Ruane shook her head. "Valenis will be here soon, she wants to see him before she starts her work."

Dean settled himself at the table and began to eat. He thought longingly of bacon and eggs and hash browns and coffee and sausage, but ate the porridge anyway. He was always slightly hungry here.

Valenis came in a few minutes later, and picked up the fourth bowl, taking it to Castiel. She settled herself on the furs beside him and woke him gently, their murmured conversation too low for the others to hear.

* * *

They found Alis at her father's workshop, sitting in front of a round stone grinding wheel, sharpening the edge of a sword. Sam watched for a moment as she worked the treadle with her foot, spinning the stone slowly around as the blade rested against it, pouring a drizzle of oil over the stone and the metal as the edge was honed evenly and slowly along its length.

"Is your father here, Alis?" he asked finally. She looked up and nodded, tipping her head toward the interior of the workshop. Ruane wrinkled her nose at the acrid stench coming from the inside, and decided to remain out in the fresh air.

"You need some practice." Alis looked up at Dean with a mocking smile. "Your aim is good but very slow reactions."

Dean bristled. His reactions were fast – with a gun – he wanted to retort, but he realised the futility of that argument as soon as he'd thought of it. His lips compressed and he nodded reluctantly.

"It's been a long time since I used a bow," he agreed sourly. Her eyebrows shot up and she lifted the blade from the stone, testing the keenness of the edge against the ball of her thumb.

"You're better with a sword?" She tossed the weapon at him, hilt first. He grabbed it from the air, more by instinct than skill, swearing at her softly under his breath as he thanked whoever was watching out for him that he still had all his fingers.

She watched him hold the sword, feeling its weight in his wrist and forearm, its balance, and getting some sense of the length, the extension of his arm.

She sighed. "Not really, then."

He looked up at her, mouth opening in protest and closing again when he saw the laughter in her eyes.

"So what kind of warrior are you, Dean W'chstr?" Ruane looked at him curiously.

"We have different weapons at home," he said awkwardly, hoping they wouldn't ask him to explain – or worse, demonstrate.

"Bow, sword, shield, spear, knife …" Alis stood up, letting the wheel slow to a stop. "Which are you good with?"

It was just a question but Dean could feel the small barb behind it. He had no doubts that she was trying to rile him.

"Gun, rifle, grenade, bomb," he answered her shortly, knowing there was no translation in the language they spoke and he might as well have spoken gobbledy gook.

The young women looked at each other.

"What are they?" Ruane asked. He sighed and shrugged, taking the sword blade gingerly and extending the hilt back to Alis.

"They're weapons, but they … there's nothing like them here."

Alis took the sword and swung the blade around smoothly, her wrist controlling the turn and speed. The metal hissed as it cleaved the air, and Dean took another step back warily.

Sam and Torgva, Alis' father, came out of the heat of the forge, Sam dripping with sweat from standing inside by the fire.

He turned to Dean and nodded. "Torgva says that he knows where the lead is. They mine the ore for the silver, and the lead is used for weights and … some kind of long range weapon. Not sure what it is."

"That's a start. Can we make the molds, using the bullets we have?"

Sam shrugged. "Probably. It'll take a bit of time to get the sizes right, because ours are jacketed and the ones we could make won't be; and we'll probably have to do a bit of filing afterward."

"Better than going without, right?" Dean looked up at the tone in Sam's voice. A hint of resignation, defeat?

"It'll be quicker to retrain using the weapons they have here, than to make them, Dean," he said quietly. "For bigger weapons, we've got a better chance, but without a micrometer and other tools, we wouldn't be able to make them accurate enough to do the job better than the arrows."

Dean's shoulders slumped. "All right. So we brush up on prehistoric weaponry 101." He was careful not to look at Alis as he said it.

Sam walked over to him. "Cas didn't tell us how much the trip cost, Dean. We could be here for a while."

Dean looked at him. "How long is a while?"

"Months, maybe a year if Valenis is right about the recovery."

"Great." Dean looked away, rubbing his hand over his jaw as he thought through the implications of that. He looked back at Sam.

"So, what do we do?"

"Get better at hunting, I guess." He sighed. "Keep our heads down, stay alive."

Torgva, Alis and Ruane watched their conversation. Most of what they were saying was incomprehensible, despite the words being translated correctly. They looked at each other.

Sam turned back to Torgva and nodded. "I'll talk to Vasiliĭ about finding some of the ore."

The huge man shrugged. "You can talk till you're blue in the face, Vasiliĭ will not send anyone with you until the fields have been turned and planted."

Dean's gusty exhale could be heard across the square. "Awesome."

Alis handed the sword to her father. He looked down the blade, holding it to the light and nodding, pleased with it.

"Like I said, Dean –," Sam started to say, when a shout came from the palisade above them.

"The fire! The fire is lit at Chernaya Dolina!" The guard pointed to the south. "The fire has been lit at Black Valley!"

Immediately Torgva turned back to the forge, Alis at his heels. Ruane turned and ran up the steep path to her father's house. Sam stared after her then looked at Dean.

"Fire?" Dean turned to the rough wooden ladder that gave access to the palisade wall. He started to climb, looking around as he reached the top. He climbed onto the inner ledge that lined the wall and walked to the guard.

"What fire?"

"The beacon fire," Sam said softly from behind him. "A warning fire."

The guard nodded, pointing to the south again. They could see the pinpoint of gold even against the pale sky, and as it grew, the smoke thickened, becoming black.

"They are under attack," the guard said, "We must send help."

Dean looked from him to Sam. "What's he talking about?"

"Long distance communication." Sam looked at his brother. "No phones here, remember? If the villages have an agreement to help each other in time of attack or whatever, they can light the fire and the others will see it, and come to help."

Down in the square men were gathering, more running in from the fields and down the valley path from the forests as the word spread. Below them, Torgva and Alis held bundles of armour and weapons, and the men were putting them on, belting swords over hauberks and heavy leather coats, picking up swords and shields, spears and bows and bundles of arrows.

"Come on." Sam started down the ladder, looking back at his brother briefly. "This is going to be our fight too."

Dean looked back to the fire burning on the mountaintop, in a straight line to them, but guaranteed to be several days walking, if not more. He turned and started down the ladder.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

Sam ran up the path, dodging those coming down. He could hear Dean pounding over the churned up ground behind him. He ran through the big doors as Vasiliĭ came out, nodding to the leader as he passed him, but continuing inside.

In their room, Guin sat beside Castiel, who was propped up against a woven basket. Her wheat-blonde hair and pale skin were not common here, but her eyes were a soft sherry-brown, surrounded by darker lashes, hinting at one parent having been born in this region, at least. Both looked up as Sam and Dean entered.

"We heard," Guin said quietly, getting to her feet and walking quickly to the table. "These are the new clothes, Sam. They should fit properly."

Sam nodded and stripped down, unconcerned about the woman standing next to him, the urgency of the situation wiping out whatever embarrassment he might have felt. He looked at Castiel.

"Cas, do you know what this is about?"

"Vasiliĭ said something, last night, about attacks on villages and towns to the south." He hesitated, glancing at Guin, "When I was … stationed … in Mesopotamia, there were some invasive forces from the east, but nothing like this. Vasiliĭ believes it is the Scythians –," He caught Dean's blank look and took a breath, "- a nomadic people from the steppes between Russia and Asia, but … in your history … they invaded to the east and the south, not this way."

Sam frowned, pulling on the leather trousers, and threading the laces through hurriedly, wrapping the long belt twice around his waist before he slid it through the clasp. "So this doesn't match up with ... your past memories of this … time?"

Castiel shook his head. "No. I am concerned … I think something might have changed when we were pushed here."

Dean frowned. "Something like what?"

"I don't know."

Dean looked at Castiel. "You all right?"

Castiel nodded, looking from one to the other. "You're going to fight?"

Dean shrugged, his eyes flicking to his brother. "We have to."

"You have no experience in this kind of fighting, Dean," Castiel said quietly.

"We know how to stay alive in a fight, Cas," Sam said, picking up the sleeveless surcoat Guin had made for him from a bearskin and pulling it on. "That'll have to be enough."

Dean flashed the angel a confident smile. "Hey, it's us. We'll be fine."

Castiel restrained himself from rolling his eyes. It was a habit he'd picked up from Dean.

"How long does it take to get to Black Valley, Guin?" Sam turned and asked her.

"Four days walking," she said, stepping close to him and adjusting the wide leather belt that held the edges of the coat together.

"We'll see you soon, Cas." Dean looked at Guin. "Take care of him."

She smiled suddenly, a wide smile that lit her eyes. "I will."

Behind her, Castiel made a sound. It was hard to tell if it was a snort or a cough.

* * *

Vasiliĭ looked around at the men and women surrounding him. He couldn't leave the village undefended. He gestured to Torgva, shaking his head as the blacksmith protested. Between them they chose thirty men and women who would stay, and keep watch while they went.

Alis stood beside her father, a small smile playing on her lips as she adjusted the heavy hauberk she wore. An oval shield, with a point at one end, hung over her shoulder by a broad leather strap. The sword belted around her waist was shorter than the one she'd been sharpening earlier, the blade slightly broader. Her bow, unstrung now, held by thin leather straps, hung across her back, the quiver beside it packed full of iron-tipped arrows.

Dean looked at her as he and Sam walked into the square, going to the remaining pile of armour and weapons to choose their own. The incongruity of seeing her armoured and ready for war disoriented him. She looked like a character out of Lord of the Rings, and it took him a moment to realise that all the people standing around looked the same, like actors on a set.

He shook his head. _Get out of that mindset_, he told himself, _this is real and these people could die in the next few days_. Himself included, he thought a moment later as Sam lifted the hauberk, the heavy chainmail shirt, over his head. He grunted as it settled onto his shoulders, the soft iron rings clinking dully. The sleeves were only to his elbows, to protect the big muscles of the upper arms and shoulders. It fell to mid-thigh, and weighed a ton. He would get used to it, he thought, but he had a feeling he'd be regretting the weight until then. Sam handed him a long leather belt, a scabbarded sword buckled to it. He wrapped the belt around himself awkwardly, trying to find the end when a pair of hands brushed his away and rewound the belt around him. He watched Alis' hands making quick work of fastening the belt, adjusting the hang of the sword so that it laid alongside his flank, the hilt settled across his hip, pointing toward his right hand. She passed him a bow and quiver, and then a shield, similar to her own.

"No, over your shoulder. You'll hit yourself in the face if it hangs that way and you reach for your sword," she said, lifting the edge away and back.

He nodded and looked at Sam. Ruane stood beside him, fastening the endless buckles and straps, settling the weapons to lie flat against his body. Dean had a momentary mental flash of Conan – not that Sam bore any resemblance to Arnie, but he sure towered above everyone else in the square.

The gates stood open and when Vasiliĭ raised his hand, they began to move out, feet sinking deeply into the mud and earth under the weight of armour and weapons, following the rutted track south, along the valley floor.

* * *

Dean leaned back against the tree trunk, stretching his legs. Taking off the hauberk every night wasn't an option, the damned thing was too heavy to get on and off without help, and he'd learned to sleep with it on, the discomfort outweighed by the tiredness he felt at the end of each day's march. He looked at the small fire in front of him, its faint warmth just reaching his toes.

Alis emerged from the darkness, holding a bowl and a piece of flatbread. She passed them to him and sat on the trunk, looking into the flames. The bowl held a stew, primarily of dried meat and barley, boiled to soften the meat and provide warmth.

"Thanks," he said, using the bread as a spoon and scooping the food into his mouth.

She glanced at him, and then past him to his brother, who lay next to the trunk, propped on an elbow, head resting against his hand. "We'll rest here for a couple of hours but Vasiliĭ wants to push on in the night."

Sam looked up at her, his face half-shadowed by the firelight. "We'll get there just before dawn?"

She nodded. "We have to see what's going on, and most men sleep deeply at that time of the night."

Dean finished the meal and put the bowl on the ground beside him. He thought of what Cas had said. Had they changed history when they'd punched through? What were the possible ramifications of that? He shook his head slightly, he didn't even know the original history of this part of the world, barely knew the history for his own country. The whole concept was far, far above his pay grade.

Alis picked up the bowl and left them, heading back to the main fire, out of sight behind the woods. Sam sighed and looked at Dean.

"You worried about tomorrow?"

Dean's mouth curved into a smile. "Well, we're in a world that we don't know, armed with weapons we haven't had practice with, against people who've been using them all their lives … why would I be worried?"

Sam snorted. "We could die tomorrow."

Dean shifted against the trunk, closing his eyes and trying to push a wayward link of mail out of the middle of his back. "Then tomorrow will be a good day to die."

* * *

Alis brushed her fingertips over his cheek, and the light touch brought him straight out of sleep. He nodded to her, and looked over to Sam, stretching out his leg, and pushing against Sam's foot with his own.

"Come on. It's time," he said, rolling awkwardly to his knees and staggering to his feet. The damned mail didn't get any lighter. The end of the sword swung around, and he caught the hilt, shifting the belt slightly to one side to resettle it. How he was going to use the sucker was a different matter, although maybe he could pretend it was just a really, really long machete.

"Come on, Sam. Time to go."

Sam sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily at him. "Right, yeah, I'm up."

They lifted their shields over their shoulders and followed Alis back to the rest of Vasiliĭ's small force. It really was small, Dean thought, looking around. Maybe a hundred at most, men and women, those who could use weapons well enough to be of use, or at least not a hindrance.

Beside him, Alis stood quietly, waiting with what seemed to be infinite patience. He knew she was excited, to be going to war, expecting to fight, he could feel the energy rising off her. He hoped she would still be standing beside him at the end of this day.

They walked through the woods, single file, making very little noise for a large armoured party. The faint clink of the chainmail and the soft rustle of the leather garments as they moved, enough to warn a guard if one had been set, but not enough to draw attention to themselves otherwise.

The night was very black when they reached the edge of the forest. Vasiliĭ raised his arm and they came to stop under the protective shadows of the tree line. Dean could see the village wall, torches still flaming on top of it, casting wildly moving shadows on the ground outside. Around the base of the wall were thirty or forty crude but effective tents, made of tanned and waxed skins. Beyond the tents two horse lines formed a rough barrier around the camp.

Vasiliĭ sent three scouts to find the position of the night guards. The enemy was perhaps two hundred strong, double their number. While they had the element of surprise, the villagers trapped inside the wall would not be able to help until dawn, when they could see the difference between friend and foe. He had already decided that they would attack at daybreak, but the guards could be dispatched before then. It was the last watch of the night, they wouldn't be missed until dawn.

He walked to Alis, nodding at Sam and Dean.

"Move around to the horse lines. Make sure you're there before the first ray of light. When you hear the signal, cut them. The Kurgans are horse fighters, without their mounts, we will have an equal chance."

Alis' bottom lip pushed forward mulishly and Vasiliĭ's expression hardened to stone.

She dropped her head quickly, "We will."

He nodded and turned away from them, moving to another small grouping and giving them their orders.

"What was that about?" Dean looked down at her curiously.

"Cutting the horse lines is not what I came here to do," she said stubbornly, looking after the village leader.

Sam stepped closer to her. "He's right though. The Scythians were primarily cavalry, without the horses, on foot, they won't have an advantage."

Dean looked at him and shook his head. The things his kid brother knew.

"There are no small jobs in a battle, Alis, you should know that," he added to the young woman. "And taking away their advantage, we might see a lot more action than you think."

She considered for that a moment, and her eyes brightened. "Come on, we'll have to take a long way around, there will certainly be guards near the lines."

* * *

There were two guards. Dean crouched down beside his brother, watching them as they crossed in front of them on their patrol.

"Diligent," he breathed. Sam nodded slightly.

"Arrow would be silent," he said.

"Except for the fall and it would probably upset the horses."

He turned to Alis, and swore softly as he realised she'd gone.

"Come on, she's already gone," he said tersely to Sam. They rose slightly and slipped through the trees.

"There." Sam breathed next to Dean's ear. Dean followed his look and saw her, still beside a low shrub at the end of the horse line. She was out of sight of the guard, thankfully, but as the sky lightened she'd become more and more obvious. And the guard was returning down the line toward her.

"Sam, you'll have to take the other guard out. Use the knife, it'll be quieter."

Sam nodded and slid away from him, moving silently between the tree trunks, using every bit of shadow.

Dean turned back to the guard. He was nearing Alis' hiding place. She rose suddenly out of the shadows, stepping forward to meet him, her armour and weapons gone, hair freed from the thick plait she'd bound it in. Dean's breath caught in his throat as he watched the guard saunter up, apparently unsurprised at the sight of her.

He watched her lean towards the man, tilting her head, speaking to him softly. He saw the guard relax, his hand leave the hilt of the short sword belted to his waist to lift her hair, curve his hand behind her neck and draw her close. Her hand slid down her side, drawing a long knife from the sheath on the back of her belt, as she brushed his mouth with her lips. The guard pulled her more tightly to him, and Dean watched the knife flash up, sliding between the slabs of hardened leather the Scythians used as armour, between the ribs on his side, driving into the heart.

It would have worked perfectly, had the man been just a man.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

Sam watched the second guard walking along the line. He had positioned himself in the shadows where the horse line curved a little toward the trees. As the guard passed him, looking toward the horses tethered along the thick rope, he rose from the crouch, and strode fast up behind him; his knife, with its serrated edge and bone handle, gripped tightly in his hand. The guard sensed him in the last second and began to turn, but Sam's hand wrapped around his head, covering his mouth, and he jerked it back, cutting off the warning shout as the knife blade plunged into the chest.

He almost let go when he saw the molten red-gold light erupting beneath the swarthy skin of the guard, shock hitting him like a hammer.

_Demon_.

* * *

The guard looked down at the long blade buried in his side and smiled at Alis, thrusting her from him. She backed away in shock, eyes opened wide as he wrapped his fist around the hilt and pulled the blade out, walking toward her. Dean stared disbelievingly for a moment, then started forward, moving as quietly as he could.

Beyond the guard, Alis kept backing, her hands spread out to either side, her eyes fixed on the guard's face, face twisted into an expression of terror. Dean started to run, and gripped the hilt of his sword with his right hand, pulling it free as he anchored the scabbard with his left. The blade hissed slightly against the leather as it came out, and the guard stopped suddenly, turning to him.

Dean looked into his eyes, gleaming black across the eye socket, no iris, no white. He ignored the jolt that went through his nervous system and swung the long blade, not high but low, feeling the edge bite through the thick leather of the man's boots, through flesh and tendon and jar on the bone. The guard screamed, his face twisted in a rictus of pain.

"Dean, break left."

Sam's voice sounded from behind him and he yanked the sword free, hitting the ground on his left shoulder and rolling sideways. From the corner of his eye he saw something flash past him. As he came to his feet he recognised the bone handle of Ruby's knife, embedded in the chest of the guard, flesh flickering with light as the demon inside was destroyed.

He glanced at the horizon, and where the mountains reared against the eastern sky he could see a thin line of grey.

Alis ran back toward them, struggling back into her hauberk, carrying her weapons. Dean lifted the mass of the shirt above her head and she shoved her arms through. He let it fall onto her shoulders, feeling not the slightest bit of remorse as her knees sagged slightly and a gasp escaped her. She buckled her sword belt on fast, slinging her shield over her shoulder and stringing her bow.

Sam looked at Dean. "It's going to be a massacre."

Dean nodded. "We have to warn them." He looked along the horse lines. "We could use these though, if this is an outrider party." He chewed his lip, considering.

"Get to Vasiliĭ, and warn him. Everyone has to get into the village, try and defend it." He swung around to Alis. "We'll take the horses, not free them, but take them."

She nodded, and she turned and ran along to the end of the furthest line, her knife retrieved from the dead guard and in her hand.

"Dean, we're three hundred years before Christianity – no holy water."

"Crap. Fine, salt then – whatever you can find." He watched Sam race along the horse line past Alis and into the tree line, and turned to the end of the line closest to him. _Demons. Here_. His thoughts raced in time with his hands as he hacked the end of the line free and started walking toward the forest, the horses, snorting at the change in routine, following him.

A hundred yards away, Alis led her line into the trees, as the first streaks of pale light stretched out across the sky.

They tethered the two lines in the forest a mile from where they'd come in to the valley. The horses were restive and Dean thought they'd be lucky to come back and find any of them there, but it was the best they could do.

"What was that man?" Alis asked him softly as they made their way back to the village. Dean glanced at her.

"It was a man, possessed by a demon," he answered shortly. "They're all possessed by demons, I think." He looked ahead through the trees at the encampment outside of the village. "Which means we're in deep shit."

She frowned. "You mean inhabited?

He nodded. "Yeah, inhabited."

"Where is the man's soul?"

"Inside, with the demon, but under its control."

"You killed it."

Dean shook his head impatiently. "We only have one knife that can do that. Demons will ride dead bodies as happily as living ones. Only that knife can kill the demon inside."

He thought of something else. "The arrow tips, they're iron?"

She nodded, baffled at the change in subject.

"That'll help. Iron is like poison to demons." His hand was resting against the hilt of his sword as he ran, and he realised that the blade too was probably iron, not steel. He tried to think of what else they could use.

* * *

Sam slid through the shadows of the trees silently, making his way quietly to the camp. He had no idea how he was convince Vasiliĭ to abandon the attack and lead his people into the village. He had no idea if these people had ever encountered a demon – or even heard of one. He remembered that Persia had a long history with demons and a load of lore, but it was a long way from here.

He came into the hidden clearing where he'd last seen them and swore softly. It was empty, they were already on the move, executing the plan that had seemed to have a good chance of success … until now.

He worked his way through the trees, to the edge of the meadow that belonged to the village. The sky was brightening more and more quickly, grey giving way to pearl, clouds edged with rose and gold as the sun inched over the mountains to the east.

By the time he reached the fight, he knew he was too late. Vasiliĭ stood by the gate, surrounded by thirty of his people. They were fighting desperately, back to back, and above them on the wall surrounding the village, the people of Black Valley fired arrows into the enemy, threw boiling oil over them, used anything they could think of to gain enough advantage to be able to open the thick gates and give their kin shelter.

But the demons riding their Kurgan soldiers ignored the arrows embedded in their armour and flesh and bone; laughed at the missing limbs; at the fatal stab wounds; at the blood and sweat and stink that covered the churned up ground in front of the village gate.

Sam saw the bodies of the people of the village of Deep Ice, the village that had welcomed them in, given them shelter, lying crumpled by the wall, chopped up across the field, and he was out of the shadows and running toward the fight without thought, knife held in his hand. He slashed at the first Kurgan in front of him, opening a wound across the back of its neck that rippled with golden light as the blade severed the spine, and plunging the knife into the chest deeply as the body fell back toward him. The skin lit up and he pulled the knife free, moving onto the next, spinning, ducking, weaving and dodging as the knife rose and fell, blood covering the blade, the hilt and his arm to the elbow.

* * *

When Dean and Alis came to the edge of the trees, Sam stood in the centre of the clearing, his head bowed, breathing heavily, bodies piled around him. Several villagers were severing the heads of the remaining demons. Vasiliĭ stood by the open gate, talking with the leader of Black Valley. He glanced at them as they walked across the meadow, nodding to them, and turned back to the other man.

"You do this, Sam?" Dean looked around at the bodies around them. Sam nodded. From neck to ankle his clothing was red with blood, his face spattered and speckled with it.

"Look at this." He crouched beside one of the bodies, now headless, and lifted a limp arm. Dean hunched over beside him, staring at the brand on the arm, a circle with a short line through one side. Sam shifted, pushing his sleeve back and extending his own arm so that it was side by side with the other. The two brands were identical, save Sam's had a thick line crossing the entire circle. Bobby had done that, with a red hot fire poker.

"Binding link." Dean looked around the bodies surrounding them. "Why? Why lock them into the meatsuits when they can be trapped that way?"

"No idea. It helps though. When we burn the bodies, they'll be sent back to Hell."

They straightened up and walked toward Vasiliĭ's group. Alis stood by him, listening to him talk to the new leader of Black Valley.

Vasiliĭ turned as they approached, thick dark brows drawing together. "What are these things?"

Dean's lips compressed as he considered how to answer that. "They're demons. They possess the bodies of the soldiers, even when they're dead."

He glanced around. "Decapitation or cutting off the limbs will slow them down, maybe stop them. But we need salt – a demon can't cross a line of salt or iron."

Vasiliĭ's expression was a mixture of horror, confusion and relief. "Demons, yes. We've heard of these creatures, from far to the south. But have never seen them." His face became hard and closed as he looked at the bodies of his people, scattered over the bloody ground.

"Salt? And iron? We have plenty of both." He looked up at them. "How do we use it?"

* * *

For the next two days, everyone, from the oldest grandfather to toddlers just able to walk, worked on the village's defences. The salt mine was normally a two day walk, to a smooth bottomed valley that had once been a briny lake, and walking, even with the handcarts, there was a limit on how much could be carried back. The sixty horses that they had captured, however made the trip fast and worthwhile. The horses were loaded with salt, and the blacksmith and wheelwright were quick to modify several carts to enable them to pulled by the horses, rather than by men.

There were a variety of problems with laying the salt around the village. It would poison the soils if too much were used and through dissolution, leeched into the ground. And rain would dissolve the defences if the salt lines were left in the open. But the palisade wall of Black Valley had been built as a double wall, with a gap of thirty inches between the two walls of logs. Filled with rubble and rock and earth, it had made the wall much stronger than a single log wall could be, and it gave them a place to pack the salt crystals, to make a permanent defensive barrier to demon incursion.

Sam worked with the blacksmith, Kirill, to make iron blades that were stronger than those they had. The addition of carbon and the rock salt to the molten ore produced harder, more flexible weapons, closer to modern steel, and weapons that were more deadly to the demon-possessed Scythian army. As he watched the big man working the metal, his face lit by the lurid red-gold light of the forge fire, Sam wondered again about the binding links. They had found one on every soldier's body, trapping the demon within when the body was incapacitated. What he couldn't understand was why. It limited the demons flexibility enormously.

Dean was wondering the same thing as he drove iron spikes into the huge beam. The village was built similarly to Deep Ice, a stone stronghold surrounded by less fortified homes, which in turn were protected within the village wall. If the demons did breach the wall somehow, the villagers needed a strong, protected building to keep them safe. The stone of the leader's house was four feet thick, and built partially into the hillside behind it. Dean and several men from the village were rebuilding the doors and gates to the two entrances, replacing the thinner hardwood with much thicker planks, and sheeting them in iron. The extra weight meant that the doorways themselves had to be rebuilt, but Sam's knowledge and Kirill's enthusiasm for new ideas had provided them with the tools and materials to hang the gates deep within the stone, the weight balanced on a thick pivot so that despite its size even a small child could push it shut and lock the massive barrel tenons that extended through the door and into the walls.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked around. Vasiliĭ had sent messengers to every village along the mountains; mounted now, they would be able to warn the other settlements of what they were facing, give them the details of how to protect themselves. Two more scouts had ridden out that morning, heading east and south, to locate the main body of the Scythian army.

He wanted to get back to Deep Ice as soon as possible, its vulnerability played on his nerves, and they needed to talk to Cas about this – surely in the time he'd been stationed on earth, he would know about this. He knew Vasiliĭ wanted to get back as well, it was only his sense of honour that had kept him here this long. In the morning they would be leaving, taking as much of the rock salt and the smelted pigs of iron ore as they could carry. Twenty of the horses would remain here, the rest would be taken back, loaded with salt and ore or pulling the carts that Black Valley could spare, loaded.

"Your brother is looking for you."

Alis' voice behind him made him jump slightly. He turned to look at her.

"Don't sneak up on people."

"If you don't want to be startled, then keep your wits about you, instead of being in a dream," she retorted.

He scowled at her. "Where is he?"

"With Kirill, at the forge." She looked at the long beam, held now by huge iron spikes. "Will it be enough?" She gestured around them, "All this, to keep them out?"

Dean turned away, mouth twisting. "I hope so."

"You don't sound certain," she said quietly. He glanced at her as he set down his tools, and unbuckled the leather tool belt from his waist.

"I'm not," he admitted. "This is as strong as we can make it, and it should be strong enough for what we've seen so far." He shrugged. "If they have stronger demons with them, then maybe not."

He followed her down the narrow road to the forge, ransacking his memories along the way. Without the exorcisms, there was no way of sending the demons back to Hell. But he'd read somewhere, in Bobby's library maybe, sometime, about more ancient methods for dealing with demonkind. He just couldn't remember where – or what the details had been.

* * *

Sam looked up as Dean ducked under the low doorway and came into the workshop. He held out a sword and a knife. The blades of both were black, with an oily patina and satin finish. Dean took them, looking at the fine edges.

"I had an idea," Sam said, the barest hint of a smile tucking in the corners of his mouth. Dean raised an eyebrow as his brother took back the sword.

"Come on, I want to show you." He walked around the massive stone that Kirill used as an anvil, and ducked low through the doorway. Dean followed him, somewhat mystified.

They had been burning bodies for the last two days, but with the other work, only a few men could be spared for the job. Several of the Scythian soldiers still lay in a pile by the wall, their flesh slow to decompose in the cold weather.

Sam looked at them, and chose a body that had been decapitated but was otherwise intact. He lifted the sword and drove it suddenly into the chest. Dean jumped as the body arched suddenly up, a furious burst of red-gold erupting from beneath the skin.

When it had died completely, he turned to look at his brother, mouth open.

"You made a demon-killing sword?" He looked back at the body. "How?"

"We've made a dozen demon-killing swords – and knives for every man, woman and child here." He wiped the blade on the body's clothing and slid into the scabbard at his side. "We never knew where Ruby's knife came from – even Alastair didn't know, and he was a lot older than Ruby – but what if it was made here? Now? Because of what's happening?"

Dean looked at him. "How?"

"Kirill and I were using different mixes in smelting the ore, adding more or less carbon, and the salt, to get a harder metal, something that wouldn't just bend, and would take an edge better, and keep it longer. And I just thought, well it couldn't hurt to try." He shook his head. "I put about a quart of blood from one of the possessed bodies into the latest batch."

Dean's eyes narrowed as he thought about that. "And it worked."

"Yeah, Kirill forged the sword and worked it yesterday. It's not as well made as with multiple workings; usually a sword would take weeks to be finished, but we needed to see if it would work." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Kirill calls it blood metal."

Dean shook his head slowly in admiration. "Dude, you are awesome." He looked down at the black metal blade of the knife he still held.

"Where are we going to get enough demon blood to make these standard munitions?"

"We'll have to bleed out the ones that haven't been burned. Alis has gone to round up some of the women to do that now. If they come calling again, then we'll have a better supply."

Dean gave him a bleak glance. "Yeah, and other bodies too."

Sam turned away. "I know, but at least this gives them a chance."

Dean grimaced, and reached out to touch his shoulder. "No, you're right. Sorry." He shrugged. "It's good, Sam. It will give them – and us – a chance."


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Dean held the head of his mount, absently stroking the long nose, his hands warmed by the horse's breath. Around him, the fifty remaining fighters of Deep Ice village were loading salt and iron onto the pack animals and into the carts, re-settling their shields and weapons, tightening the leather girths on the crude saddles and loading the armour, weapons and personal possessions of their dead friends and neighbours on top of the loads in the carts.

Vasiliĭ stood apart, watching as well. Dean could see the deepening of the lines that seamed the leader's face, grief and responsibility etched permanently, and more silver showing in the long black hair that was bound at the nape of his neck. They had lost fifty men and women in the attack; husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, skilled hunters and fighters and craftsmen, people who were essential to their continued survival and prosperity in the mountain country. There would be grieving when they returned to their valley, and even that could not last long as the ground had to be turned, the seed planted and tended, or they would starve over the following winter. And, Dean thought unhappily, the village had to be protected, taking more people and time.

Alis led her horse up beside him. The horses of the steppes were thick-boned and slightly smaller than he was used to seeing in his own time. They had evolved over millennia to survive in one of the harshest environments on earth, the high windswept plains that lay between Russia and the Middle East, where the winter temperatures were frequently forty below zero, and the short summers were dry and desert-like, the temperatures rising above forty degrees and the grasses burning away. They were able to survive in the worst conditions and even now their coats were thick and soft, ribs and hips covered comfortably despite the long winter. They would be very useful additions to the villages, for transport and sending messages, and harnessed to the simple ploughs and hoes, to make the planting and harvesting more efficient and faster.

"Are you ready?" she asked him. He nodded, looking around for Sam. He saw him on the other side of the clearing, holding his own horse and talking to Kirill. The blacksmith had taken Sam on as an apprentice of sorts, and in return, Sam had filled the man's mind with ideas, radical and unheard of in this time, commonplace and well-known in their own.

Dean passed the split leather reins over his horse's head as the people of Deep Ice began to mount, tucking his foot into the simple stiffened leather loop that served as a stirrup, and springing up and into the simple saddle. He rubbed the bay mare along her neck, under the thick black mane. He'd done a few weeks work at a cattle ranch in Colorado, just after Sam had gone to Stanford, regular work, not hunting, and had enjoyed it, developing a liking for the horses that had been used extensively on the ranch, and skills that he could put into practice again now. His fingers lay lightly on the reins, which controlled the horse's head not by a bit but through pressure on the nose, cheeks and neck, and turned the mare around with his legs, waiting for the carts and pack horses to pass first.

The return journey, though they had to take a different path, lower down the sides of the mountains where the ground was easier and the paths wider, took a day and a half on horseback, instead of the four it had needed on foot. Without the threat of attack, and the crushing grief of losing their own, the ride might have been pleasant. Instead they hurried along, alert and silent, wanting to be home.

* * *

They reached the village wall at dusk, the torches already flaming on top of the palisade wall, the gate fires already burning. Sam dismounted stiffly, the muscles of his legs and his seat bones protesting at the change after twelve hours of sitting in one position – more or less. His mount blew at him as he walked up to its head, rubbing the ridge above its eye hard against his shoulder. He braced himself and smiled. Even though they weren't comfortable, sometimes intractable, insisted on doing much of the thinking about trails and routes themselves, he found himself liking them.

Dean rode up beside him and dismounted, stretching out his back and thighs as they waited for the rest of the party to go through.

"Well, I'm kind of glad Dad never got me a pony for Christmas now," Sam said softly.

Dean laughed. "It just takes a few days for your muscles to get used to it." He looked back down the trail they'd ridden in on. "And it beats walking, carrying a load yourself."

They led their horses into the square, finding a spare pen for them, tying them and unsaddling them. Two of the villagers brought armfuls of hay for them, and they slipped the bridles off, and stood by the rails, watching them eat for a moment.

Dean picked up the saddle and bridle, holding them over his arm as he turned around. Sam did the same, a little more awkwardly.

"Alis? Where can we put this stuff?" Dean called out as he spotted her. She held her own saddlery over her arms and jerked her head sideways. They followed her down to a large timber barn, built against the palisade wall and put down their loads.

"Vasiliĭ wants to see you – and your friend, Casteel, as soon as possible." She said quickly, hurrying from the barn.

Dean looked at Sam. "Pow wow time."

Sam nodded.

* * *

Vasiliĭ sat on a pile of furs in front of the fire in their room, talking to Castiel. The low table was covered with platters and bowls of food, and their stomachs rumbled and growled as they walked reluctantly past to seat themselves close to the angel.

"Demons?" Castiel looked at them. "Here?"

"Yeah, an army of demons," Dean clarified, trying to ignore the scents that wafted toward them from the table. "And they were bound, locked into the meat -," he stopped, glanced at Vasiliĭ, "into their flesh."

Castiel looked at Vasiliĭ, a frown drawing his brows close together. "In the last ten years, have there been any massacres, or disasters, taking many lives, over a thousand?"

Vasiliĭ's eyes narrowed as he thought. "Yes, there was one such event, three years ago. A force from the far east, the yellow men, came and killed many, many people, in the lands southeast of here, at the end of the mountain range."

"Azerbaijan," Castiel commented to Dean and Sam. "Did they stay, and conquer those lands?"

Vasiliĭ shook his head. "No, my cousin who lives close to the border said that they came and spilled blood, and then left."

"How many people were killed, Vasiliĭ, and where was the massacre?" Castiel leaned toward the leader, his expression intense.

"From the foothills on the southern end of the mountains, to the shores of the great sea that lies to the east, to where the desert begins in the south." Vasiliĭ closed his eyes, recalling the fear and talk that had spread after the invasion. "Two or three hundred villages, towns, were sacked and destroyed. No one was left alive."

Dean felt a trickle of cold dread spread down his spine at the man's words. If each village held one or two hundred people, and the towns maybe more – he was talking about tens of thousands, not thousands. Sam's expression mirrored his own.

Castiel leaned back, nodding slowly. "It takes a great deal of bloodshed to open a Gate. And there was – is – a Gate in the lower Caucasus, near the Caspian Sea. Someone planned this, brought this to pass." He looked at Dean. "The gateways to Hell exist over the earth. They are locked but have cracks, demons can get through, from time to time, in very small numbers. But when a Gate is opened, many can come through, as you know."

"That Gate was sealed in my time here. There were no records of it ever having been opened." He closed his eyes suddenly. "Something has changed. And it changed before we were pushed here, so perhaps the push wasn't by someone trying to thwart our plans, but by someone trying to stop whatever is happening here."

He opened his eyes, looking at Vasiliĭ. "You said that the Scythians began to attack two years ago, corresponding with a new weather cycle?"

Vasiliĭ nodded uneasily. "We had two very bad years, long winters we know, but not this long, and too much rain in the spring, not enough in the summer. The crops died in many places south of here. And the people died too, of famine, of sickness that had no name."

Sam looked at Castiel. "Please tell me the Horsemen haven't been summoned."

Castiel shook his head. "No, when the weather changes and the crops fail, famine and sickness always follow. There's nothing … unusual … about that."

"Then what's going on?" Dean looked from Vasiliĭ's worried face to Castiel.

"I don't know," Castiel said slowly. "Someone has opened a Gate to Hell and released a lot of demons. They've bound them into the bodies of the Scythians, sometimes called the Kurgans, for the burial mounds that are scattered across their realm. In our – in my experience, the Scythians invaded to the east of their lands, the steppes, into Asia. They did not turn west." He sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "Someone has altered the course of events, and is using the demons to achieve something that was not written in the destiny lines. Someone who is powerful enough to control them, to work the spells of the binding links, of the possessions."

Vasiliĭ looked at the angel's face worriedly. "You are talking no sense, my friend. Who has such power to control demons? Or to change destiny?"

"I don't know, Vasiliĭ," Castiel admitted. He looked at Dean again. "But every settlement, every person who lives in these lands is in danger. The Scythians were – are - renowned for their ability in war. They are mounted and skilled at fighting on horseback, and they were born of the high desert, with the stamina and survival skills of the horses that carry them. They are a formidable enemy."

Dean took a deep breath. "That's just freaking great, Cas."

Sam shook his head. "With the blood metal weapons we can make, we can at least hold them off. But we can't fight the main army head to head; there aren't enough people who can be spared here."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "We will see what the scouts say, when they return. It is unlikely that these mountains are the target of an attack like this. We are sparsely populated, spread thin-"

Castiel looked at him. "But a road through here, to the north and west – the lands of the west are rich, and heavily populated."

Vasiliĭ shrugged. "There is a good road to the west in the far south – the yellow men and all the traders use it, they do not have to cross over mountains this high."

"The Silk Road," Sam said quietly, and the leader nodded.

Vasiliĭ looked around at the table. "The food is cooling. We must eat."

* * *

Dean licked his fingers and leaned back against the edge of the table, his feet extended to the fire. Vasiliĭ had left them and the food had been good, still hot and delicious after the days of trail provisions. He picked up the cup of warm wine, sipping it, letting the taste sit on his tongue as Ruane had told him to. The herbs and spices that infused the rich wine added a multitude of tastes over and above the earthy taste of the grapes themselves. He let it trickle down his throat, closing his eyes.

Alis opened the door, coming in with a heavy earthenware jar in her hands. She put it on the table and looked from Sam to Dean. "My mother thought you would like this. It is from her homeland." She held out her hands for their cups and they finished the contents quickly, handing them to her.

The liquid she poured from the jug was a deep golden brown, the smell was sweet and rich with cinnamon, but with an underlying smell of mustiness. Dean looked at it suspiciously. Sam leaned forward.

"Mead?" he asked. Alis nodded, looking up as Ruane came in with another two cups. She poured them out and stoppered the jug, picking up her cup and sipping the spiced sweet drink.

Sam took his and tasted it, swallowing a mouthful when he realised that it wasn't too sweet.

"What is it?" Dean picked up the cup and looked at it.

"Mead, alcohol made from honey," Sam said. He looked at Alis and Ruane with a slight smile. "Skol."

Alis' smiled widened as she raised her cup. "Skol."

Ruane looked from one to the other, unsure of the joke.

Dean lifted the cup and dipped the end of his tongue in. The taste was sweet but not overly so, cut by the spices. He drank a little, wondering briefly if he was supposed to let this sit in his mouth before swallowing as well. He didn't think so. He didn't think much of the alcohol content, but it went down easily enough.

He looked behind him, to where Cas lay on the furs.

"Cas?" He leaned toward the bed. "You awake?"

Castiel moved slightly, raising his head. "Yes."

"You wanna try some of this? It's pretty good." Dean rolled to his feet, taking the cup to the angel.

"Mead?" Castiel looked down at the thick liquid.

Dean frowned. Did everyone know about this stuff except him?

"Yeah." He sat down next to the furs, watching as Castiel sipped at the drink. "Vasiliĭ was right. Who in this time could control demons, raise an army of them?"

Castiel shook his head. He didn't know, not for sure. And he couldn't think of any way to verify it. Or what the possible purpose could be for it.

"There are the Watchers," he said at last, reluctantly.

"The who?" Dean looked up as Sam crouched down beside them.

"The Watchers, in your time, they were sometimes called the Eighth Choir, but that isn't right." Castiel swallowed the remaining mead in the cup and handed it back to Dean. "They are … were … angels, who fell to earth. Some of the Fallen fought with Lucifer and were cast down with him. Some remained out of the conflict, and swore to watch over the human race, to teach them the knowledge and skills of Heaven. Some remained neutral in the war of Heaven but were ambivalent at best, or malevolent about humanity."

Alis brought the jug from the table, refilling their cups. "These Watchers, where are they?"

"Mostly Syria, some in Jordan." He looked up at her, seeing that the names were meaningless. "In the deserts to the south, that lie along the edge of the western sea."

"Are they giants?" She stared at Castiel.

"Some are." He nodded. "Have you heard of them?"

She nodded. "I thought it was … you know, tales to tell children, to make them afraid, but my mother said they were real, they lived far away and they were more than men, living for hundreds of years."

Dean looked from Alis to Sam to Castiel. "So there are fallen angels around here, a few of which hate humanity?"

Sam was frowning, chasing down an illusive memory. "Noah's great-great-great-whatever grandfather wrote about them, didn't he?"

Castiel sighed. "Yes, something of them, at any rate."

"They took human women for wives, and had children." Sam closed his eyes as the memory crystallised. "And God sent the flood to wipe them out."

Dean looked at Sam. "Didn't read that in the bible."

Sam shook his head. "It's in one of the non-canonical texts – the Book of Enoch. Quite a lot about the 'sons of God' – the angels who fell deliberately, because they wanted to be a part of humanity, have families."

Castiel shrugged. "Bearing in mind that it was written a long time ago and has been mistranslated several times since, but yes, that's the gist of it."

"So we could be up against a fallen angel, who's pissed off generally with humans, and what? Wants to wipe us out? Finish what the flood started? Bring Hell to earth?"

"I don't know, Dean," Castiel said, impatience edging his voice. "I'm not even sure that it is one of them we seek."

"But they're around at this time, and they have means and motive. Angels could control demons, and it's a good bet that's why the demons are locked in." Dean looked from the angel to Sam.

Ruane watched the conversation, feeling a dread rising in her heart. She edged closer to Sam, shivering a little as she heard the uncertainty and uneasiness in their voices. Sam turned, seeing the expression on her face. He shifted his legs, slipping an arm around her and drawing her close.

"Yes, it would explain that," Castiel agreed reluctantly.

Valenis pushed the door open and walked over to them, her hands settling on her hips as she took in the expressions on their faces.

"Castiel, you should be resting." She glanced at her daughter. "You are all so young and healthy that you do not need sleep for the work you will be doing tomorrow?"

Alis rose to her feet, and picked up the jug of mead. Ruane rose as well, sorry that Valenis had chosen this time to interrupt them, the warmth where Sam's arm had lain upon her shoulders now cooling.

Dean and Sam stood slowly, going to the low table and gathering the bowls and dishes from their meal and stacking them onto the flat wooden trays, leaving Valenis alone with Castiel, as they carried them out and back to the kitchen.

"You must rest, Castiel." She crouched down beside him, laying the back of her fingers against his temple, and then his neck. "Guin will be here tomorrow, to make sure you are resting."

He looked at her, her face shadowed, the fire at her back. "I was resting -,"

"You think the Qaddiysh are responsible for the demons?" she said, using the Aramaic term.

Castiel looked up at her slowly. "Yes, maybe."

She nodded. "It is possible. There is someone I can ask, someone who could confirm it if it is true."

"Who?" Castiel struggled to a sitting position. Valenis looked at him in frustration.

"Lie down, rest." She pushed him down and pulled the furs over him again. "In the mountains, a long way to the south, near the headwaters of the Euphrates River, a man lives. He is not a man, you understand, he has lived there for a long time. He has been a friend, someone who helps when he can. His name is Penemue."

Castiel nodded, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "I know of a man who is not a man called by that name."

She nodded. "I will contact him, in the water, and ask. But only if you rest now, and tell your friends to let you rest."

Castiel settled back against the smooth fur and allowed her to tuck the edges against him. Penemue. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen his brother.

When Dean and Sam returned to the room, Castiel was asleep, his breathing light and steady. Sam laid more wood on the fire, wondering if he'd ever feel really warm again. Dean took off his boots and clothes, and stretched out on the soft furs, feeling the room sway very gently. _Guess the mead had a bit of a delayed kick_, he thought as sleep stole in and pulled him away.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

The morning air held a touch of warmth, the sky a cloudless blue that arced overhead, framing the mountain peaks like an amphitheatre. Dean could almost feel the restless energy in the earth as the soil warmed and the plants stirred and winter fell away.

With the help of the horses, the soil of the fields had been tilled and the wheat, oats, rye and barley had been planted out in a short time, everyone in the village had gone out to help. He was still aching from the endless repetitious actions, casting out the seed from the roughly woven slings, holding the simple wooden and iron ploughs steady as the horses dragged them through the moist earth, row after row along the river flats and the more gentle sides of the valley.

He walked past the stacks of logs that had been next priority; building a second, thicker log wall out from the existing palisade wall. It was almost finished; the big, mature logs set deeply into the ground, angled slightly outward, the upward ends sharpened. The village was not difficult to build defences around, its position against the slope of the valley wall helped, giving the defensive walls greater height than just the height of the logs, as the ground fell away under them.

The messengers to the other villages had returned a week ago, and were waiting on Sam and Torgva to finish the blood metal weapons that needed to go out. The blacksmith and his brother had been experimenting with casting the swords as well as forging them; the cast weapons were inferior, but were made more quickly, and in greater quantities.

Demonsbane swords, Alis had nicknamed them, he remembered with a half-laugh. Despite the fact that he was wearing a homespun shirt, leather pants and vest, had a sword and knife belted on him every day – in fact felt naked without them now – he still couldn't quite rid himself of the idea that they'd been dropped into Middle Earth. Not having to see himself a mirror helped.

Castiel was healing, but slowly. Valenis wouldn't revise her original estimate of his full recovery, and he wondered if they would still be here next winter. The angel seemed to be quietly determined now, talking of the action they could take if the army was heading into the mountains, of ambush and booby trapping the rudimentary roads through the valleys and ridges that they would have to take. Guerilla warfare, Sam had said, the only possible offence they could mount with their inferior numbers.

On Cas' advice, Vasiliĭ had already posted watchers on the three peaks that surrounded them, each with a signal fire to ensure that the village had enough time to prepare for an attack, if and when it came.

Dean walked on, down to the rough quarry of glacier gravel that was providing the infill for the new walls. He stood on the low, dividing ridge, looking down into the small valley, where a long-ago ice behemoth had dropped thousands of tons of rock and soil and pebbles as it had retreated back up into the mountains. Men were digging through the rubble, filling the carts with what would become a loose aggregate, holding the larger rocks and pigs of pure iron and salt layers in a firmly packed barrier, impervious to hellspawn – and to a few other creatures that lived in these mountains, he hoped, picking his way down the rough track.

The gates had already been rebuilt, a five layer sandwich of thick oak planks, soaked in a brine solution, and coarse iron sheeting, strapped and bound with blood metal and hung on a massive pivot that was inset between the old and new palisade walls. He doubted it could be breeched, the twisting road up leading up it wouldn't allow for a good run for a battering ram, and it was two feet thick now. He supposed there were some advantages to the primitive weapons that were all anyone could use in this time.

"Dean!" Elbek called to him from the flat bottom of the quarry. "Maia found tracks this morning, on the edge of the forest."

"Tracks of what?" He walked toward them, brows raised.

"Wyvern." Elbek grinned at him. "We will hunt it tonight, yes?"

Dean's mouth compressed slightly. He nodded. The last thing they needed after spending all this time and effort on building the defences around the village was a creature who could riddle the walls and gate with acid. And he could admit to a curiosity about a creature who was a smaller cousin to a dragon.

"I'll let Vasiliĭ know tonight." He looked around. "How many do we need to hunt it?"

"Five will do." Elbek shrugged and lifted another shoveload of the aggregate into the cart beside him.

The filling of the walls was a time-consuming, tedious, labour-intensive job. Dean longed for a backhoe. But even with one, the chances of being able to get it close enough to the walls, on the slopes of broken rock and pockets of boggy mud were nil. He picked up another shovel and began to dig, loading the cart alongside Elbek. Why was it, that no matter where or when he was, he was always digging?

* * *

Sam looked at the sword critically. The balance was good, the metal lighter and stronger than the previous batch. The oily, iridescent gleam on the black metal was consistent across all the batches they'd made. He put it down and picked up another, holding it straight out in front of him, seeing the blade was perfectly straight, in cross-section, it bowed out slightly from the centre, fullered through the middle to further lighten it, and conversely provide a greater strength. This new batch took a very keen edge when sharpened and polished. The swords had full tangs, the hilts a simple crossguard and a thick wrapping of wire, providing a good grip in any weather. He set it down, satisfied that these were suitable to send out, and began to pack them into hemp sacks, wrapping each blade in a length of roughly tanned and oiled leather to protect the blades.

Ruane watched him for a moment before she spoke. "Are they ready?"

He looked up and nodded. "Yeah, these can go out to the other villages."

She turned and walked away to tell her father. The messengers, Petr and Yuri and Natil, would be able to leave within the hour. The sight of the stacks of the black blood metal swords should have been reassuring, but it was another reminder that the world was changing, and not likely for the better.

* * *

"You look … very handsome." Guin said, as she stood in front of Castiel. He wore the new clothing she'd made for him, a shirt of tightly woven homespun, buttery soft tanned pants, a thick vest of lambswool that would meet with the healer's approval, she hoped. He glanced at her, his face expressionless, but his eyes amused.

"That's not necessary." He walked slowly across the room, observing, probing his vessel's body for weakness. It seemed to be functioning correctly, for the most part. The headaches were still present, and he became short of breath, his heart accelerating after a few minutes of exertion, but that was to be expected. He'd never travelled back so far before, not even on his own, let alone trying to hold two humans with him, protect them. The clothes felt strange, the textures very different from modern clothing, but they fit and would, he thought with a characteristic pragmatism, feel comfortable once he was used to them.

He turned back to her, feeling a strange sensation as he looked at the long, pale blonde hair that hung loose down her back, drawn back and framing her face, an oval face with clear pale skin, the tawny eyes shadowed a little by the long darker lashes. They had spoken together of many things, of her travels in the region, of the life in the village, of his experiences with people, and his doubts about his decisions. He supposed that he knew her, reasonably well, now. He found talking to her easy, comfortable, without the pitfalls and traps that talking to others seem to hold. She didn't make references to things he knew nothing of, as if they were common; she asked nothing of him, but his company, and she was kind, no matter which way the conversations turned. It was – relaxing – to spend time with her. The sensation was indefinable, a hint of warmth in his chest – he wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Valenis will be here soon. Sit down, or I'll get into trouble for not letting you rest," she said, walking toward him, and gesturing to the floor beside the low table. Castiel lowered himself to the floor slowly, and leaned against the table. Guin straightened the beds, added more wood to the fire, moving slowly around the room, her eyes looking for things to do with her hands.

"Guin." Castiel watched her. "What's wrong?"

She looked at him, smiling. "Nothing."

"Then sit with me."

He saw a soft flush of red seep into the skin of her neck and cheeks as she turned away from him slightly. He watched her, baffled. She had never been nervous or uncertain in his company before.

The tentative train of thought was interrupted by Valenis' entrance, and as he greeted the healer, he noticed that Guin had left, closing the door behind her softly.

"Well, you have your confirmation," Valenis said, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him. "Penemue said that three of the Qaddiysh have turned, begun their plans to make war on humanity. Armârôs is leading them."

Castiel closed his eyes. Three of them. That explained how they'd been able to open the Gate, and control not only the main army of demons, but the scouting parties as well.

And it explained why the demons were being bound into the flesh of the soldiers. The Watchers would not want the hellspawn roaming free across the earth. He wondered what deal had been made with the Fallen of Hell to provide so many demons for the task. The archdemons had long ago given up any fealty or even preference for seraphim, though they'd once been brothers all. It had to be for power. Everything was for power.

He rubbed his fingers over his face. Someone had changed something prior to their backward push through time and space, had enabled a line of destiny to break free of the matrix, to follow an alternative path. Whatever it had been, it could not be undone, not now, not here in this time. They would have to erase the results of the path, although he couldn't see how that could be accomplished either. Already, Sam had taught the blacksmith far too much to be able to undo it, or forget it. The blood metal had been forged. Demonkind had been seen, been fought. Stories would become legends, legends become myth and he had no recollections of such myths in the time of the Winchesters.

If they were not able to undo the line, then they must end it, he thought tiredly. The Watchers would have to die. And the enslaved demons. And whatever deal had been made with the Unclean would have to be undone. He couldn't think of a way to achieve any of those things with the resources he had to hand. He needed Heaven. Needed the guidance of Michael and the power of the souls.

* * *

"A wyvern? Here in the valley?" Vasiliĭ stared at Dean, turning to look at Elbek. "There haven't been wyvern so low for many, many years."

Dean shrugged. It was a monster, they would kill it, then hopefully many more years could pass in safety before another ventured down.

"The snows were deep this winter passed." Elbek looked at the leader. "Perhaps it's hungry."

"Perhaps." He nodded tiredly. They couldn't afford to let it roam, destroying their livestock and crops if it had come down in search of food. "Take the most experienced decoys, Elbek, we cannot afford to lose anyone else."

Elbek nodded, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he turned and strode down the hall to gather the hunters.

Vasiliĭ looked at Dean. "How are the walls coming?"

"Good. They'll be done by the end of the week." He looked around. "We should be posting guards on the fields now."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "I know. We'll start from tonight. They'll be excused from the building work." He looked at the younger man, seeing the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

"If you are hunting tonight, you should rest. You look horrible."

Dean's mouth lifted at one corner. "Yeah. I will."

He turned away from the leader, walking across the hall to the long tables where his brother was sitting with Ruane and her father.

"Feel like hunting wyvern tonight, Sam?" He sat down and took the bowl of soup and bread that Ruane passed him. It was hot and nourishing, he supposed, but he longed for a burger, loaded with saturated fats. He'd have to do something about that, when they had time.

"Sure." Sam used the remains of his bread to wipe the bowl clean. "What weapons do we use?"

"Sword, shield, axe," Alis said from behind Dean, walking up to the table and sitting beside him. "Two will play decoy, get its attention. Two others will have the butcher work. The last will keep watch so that we're not taken by surprise if anything else turns up." She took the bowl from Ruane and ate quickly.

"So, who does what?" Sam looked from her to Dean, brows raised.

"The decoys have to be fast, and skilled. The butchers, less skill is needed, mainly strength." Alis looked across the hall. "I think Elbek will choose Lyre as the other decoy."

"The other decoy?" Dean looked at her. She nodded.

"We'll be the decoys. We're lighter and faster. And more skilled with our weapons." The glint of humour was back in her eyes and Dean restrained the urge to roll his own. "You and Sam are not so skilled, but you don't need much skill to kill it, just big muscles."

Alis glanced at Ruane, the younger woman's mouth tucking into the corners, as she repressed a smile. Dean exchanged a look with Sam, who shrugged. She was right, they didn't have the same level of skill. He wasn't sure why Dean let the girl get under his skin all the time.

"When do we go?" he asked Alis.

"After moonrise. We'll take the horses up the mountain. They'll be bait, draw the wyvern, and there'll be a lot to carry back."

Sam's forehead creased. "What do you mean?"

Ruane turned to him. "Wyverns are magical creatures, like their cousins. We need to bring back most of the carcass, for the teeth and claws, the wings and the scales."

"And the heart," Alis added, rolling her head back and stretching. "I'm going to rest."

She swung her legs over the bench, swivelling around, and stood up, walking across the hall to the great doors and disappearing into the darkness.

Ruane looked at Sam. "You will be careful, tonight. Wyvern may not be as big as dragons, but they are cunning, and fast."

She stood up and walked away, heading for the staircase and the rooms of her family.

Dean looked at Sam, brows raised. "That wasn't reassuring."

Sam watched the slender, dark-haired girl until she had climbed out of sight, then turned back to his brother. "No."


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

* * *

The moon was waning, less than a quarter showing as the dark streamers of cloud blew across the sky, driven fast before a chilling northern wind.

Alis sat on her horse, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the fur wrapped around her, the scent of coming snow blowing down the valley. Beside her, Dean stood next to his mount, watching the steam from its nostrils lit white by the intermittent moonlight and wondering what had possessed him to volunteer for this hunt. He could have been inside, asleep, warm and oblivious now.

Sam came down the broad, shallow steps in front of the keep, Lyre and Elbek hurrying to keep with his long strides.

"Valenis said there's a storm coming." Elbek looked critically into the sky, nostrils flaring as he caught the slightly bitter scent of the snow on the wind. "We'll have to hurry."

They mounted and Alis led the party out through the gates, the gatekeepers waving them on solemnly, no doubt grateful to have their small fires and the sturdiness of the wall against their backs for this night.

The track they took was the same one Dean and Sam had come down on, the tracks of the creature reportedly seen by the edge of the great boreal forest north and east of the village.

"What's the difference between a wyvern and a dragon, apart from size?" Dean nudged his mount closer to Alis'.

"Wyvern have only four limbs, hind legs and their wings, the same as every other creature in the world. Dragons have six; forelimbs, hindlimbs and wings. It is said that dragons are not of this world, that they came from the stars, a long time ago," she answered softly, slowing her mare down so that they rode side by side. "Wyvern do have some magic, they are hard to see, especially by day, they can cloud your mind, if you look into their eyes."

He turned his head to look at her, surprised by the emotion in her voice. Usually she was pragmatic, not really given to showing much of how she felt. "How do we kill them?"

"Their armour is mainly on their backs. Underneath, there are scales, like those of a snake, soft and supple." She remembered the dead wyvern she'd seen when she had been very young, maybe four or five years of age. The colours had been iridescent, gleaming like a rainbow in the sun. She'd cried for it, for the loss of the beauty and the strength she'd felt in it. Her father had sat her down and explained that the beast had taken two children from the village lower down the pass, a three year old boy and a four year old girl. She remembered the look in his eyes, when he'd spoken to her, the fear that he hadn't expressed. He'd seen the remains. She'd still felt the sadness over its death, but had begun then to understand that the life of one thing invariably meant death for another.

Dean watched her face curiously, seeing it soften with some memory. Alis shook off her thoughts, turning to look at the man riding beside her, hesitating as she saw the expression on his face, an expression she couldn't identify. "Below the head, under the jaw, the scales are softest. You can drive a sword through there, or use an axe and sever the neck."

"What about the acid? How bad is it?" He saw her face close up again, and told himself to concentrate on the hunt ahead. "Is this armour enough to protect against it?"

Alis shook her head. "No, it's very strong, very quick. You have to stay away from the head until you're ready to make the kill. The acid bites deep, it goes through metal, leather, cloth or flesh with equal ease."

"Awesome," he muttered. He hoped that when he and Sam were actually faced with the thing, it would be more obvious to them what they needed to do. Half the problem was that Elbek and Alis had done this for so long, they didn't remember that he and Sam had never even seen these creatures, let alone gone toe to toe with them. They were assuming knowledge that he and his brother just didn't have.

* * *

The track curved around at the forest's edge, rising and falling over the uneven ground. Dean could hear a rushing noise, some way ahead. He turned to ask Alis about it, and she shook her head, holding a finger to her lips as she drew her horse to a stop and slipped from its back.

He swung off, holding his horse's head as Sam, Lyre and Elbek rode up beside them, dismounting quickly. He caught Sam's familiar grimace as his feet hit the ground. It was taking his little brother a long time to get used to the movements of riding, he thought with a trickle of amusement.

They led the horses along the trail, Alis and Lyre now taking point, Elbek next, he and Sam bringing up the rear. The rushing noise turned out to be a cataract, the mountain creek boiling and seething over sharp rocks as the ravine narrowed tightly and the flow was compressed between its high walls. The sound echoed around them, and the air was filled with a fine mist, chilling and hiding the shapes of things along the edges of the ridge.

A massive tree lay across half of the ravine, bleached out by many winters and summers, its bones gleaming white in the fitful moonlight, and Elbek took their horses and tied them to the lower branches, the animals leery, snorting and flicking their ears back and forth, occasionally stamping a foot.

Alis and Lyre had moved ahead, and Elbek stopped the brothers as they tried to follow, leading them back, behind the horses, gesturing for them to lean close to him.

"The decoys will draw it out. You have to wait, find a place in the rocks to either side of the ravine, until the beast is in the open ground," he spoke very softly, lifting his head slightly and pointing to the flat section of stone and gravel covered ground between the horses and where the defile narrowed tightly. "Then you come in from behind it, you understand? You cannot attack unless the decoys have it fully occupied."

Dean glanced over at Sam. "You ready for this?"

"Sure, why not?" Sam gave him a twisted smile. "Elbek, how big are they?"

"Not too big, maybe twelve to fifteen feet, nose to tail tip."

Dean saw his brother's face paling slightly beneath his tan. "That's gotta weigh, two or three tons."

Elbek shrugged, not knowing the words. "They are heavy; the tail is dangerous, like being hit by a falling tree." He looked from Sam back to Dean. "So, you wait, yes? Until the head is past you, watch out for the tail, make sure the wyvern is fully distracted before you go in for the head."

They nodded and moved away, heading toward the tight end of the ravine, choosing their hiding places. The cloud was breaking up again as the wind picked up, and the shadows behind the rocky outcrops were deep black when the quarter moon shone clearly. Dean watched as Sam ducked into one, disappearing entirely.

He slipped behind a massive boulder, checking to see that he was entirely within its shadow and ran through the meagre information he had about the creature they were about to face. Twelve to fifteen long, four limbs, heavy, fast, vulnerable around the head, which they had to keep away from because the fucking thing spat an acid that would eat through their armour, weapons and flesh in minutes … that was it. He closed his eyes briefly, and sent out a brief prayer to the entity he knew was real but no longer believed in, to keep their asses safe from this monster.

The noise didn't register at first, under the roar of the river, of the wind whistling now through the trees along the edges of the ravine. A scraping sound, punctuated by odd clicks and rustles. He frowned as it penetrated his consciousness, and leaned out slightly past the boulder's edge.

Alis ran past him, her boots almost silent over the stones, jumping for a high outcrop of granite to his left. There was a high whistling sound and a splat, as if someone had thrown a water bomb at the rock, and he watched as steam began to rise from the side of the stone, and an acrid stench filled the air. From the top of the rock, Alis drew another arrow back to her jaw, releasing the string as she twisted and leapt from the top, landing on her hands and knees behind the rock, a second stream of acid shooting above her.

The roar of pain was shocking, filling the narrow ravine and echoing insanely off the walls, rolling around them as it continued on and on. Dean heard the scrabbling of claw and scale over the stones, and twisted around to the other side of his boulder, glancing at his brother, seeing a sliver of Sam's face just protruding from his hiding place.

The wyvern filled the flat ground between them, an escapee from a fantasy artist's collection, Dean thought. The last time he'd seen something like this, it had been airbrushed on the side of a custom panel van.

The crocodilian head was wedge-shaped, distinct eye ridges running back to a horned and bony plate that protected the back of the neck, where heavy plates, articulated along the muscles running to either side of the spine, covered the creature's long neck and back. The tail was almost the same length as the body, lashing in fury now, like a cat in a rage. From the shoulder joints, long, leathery wings, half folded, supported the front of the beast, its movement ungainly but fast, two long claws protruding from the joint of the wing to support the limb on the ground. The hindquarters were powerfully muscled, sheathed in scales that rippled and gleamed under the moon's light, and at the ends of the long toes, scimitar-like claws gripped the loose rock covering the ground, each claw six or seven inches.

Dean leaned back against the rock, closing his eyes as his mind struggled with the sight. Twenty seven years he'd spent, training himself to believe in monsters, but still the sight of the reptile behind him seemed to be more fairy-tale than real life. _Not any more_, he told himself, _now everything's real, werewolves turn into actual wolves, for all he knew vampires might be able to fly and turn themselves into bats, all bets were off the table and he had to get his shit together because in a few seconds he and his brother had to confront that thing and chop off its fucking head._

_Deep breath, deep breath_. He turned his head, looking over to Sam. He saw his brother's gaze turn to him and he nodded once.

They came out from their cover together, Sam running to the other side of the wyvern as Dean watched its tail. He saw Lyre race past the head, her sword clanging as she hit the bony ridge behind the eyes, and dove forward, tucking and rolling under the long squirt of acid the wyvern spat at her, stopping behind the cover of another boulder. He was turning to the head when he saw Alis miss her footing on the top of a sloping rock face, and fall awkwardly, the toe of her boot sliding into a narrowing crevice and catching, slamming her into the rockface as she tried to turn the fall into a roll.

The wyvern's head snapped up, the long mouth opening and he ran for it, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, swinging it up over his head as he leapt, driving it down between the neck plates with his weight over it as he came down. The sword plunged point down, driving through the thick muscles, glancing off the bone of the spine, and pinning the neck to the ground. He didn't see the lash of the thick tail, just felt the impact as it hit him in the back, knocking him into the air, to crash into the rock where Alis struggled to free herself.

Dean shook his head, gripping the girl's arms and yanking her down, her foot coming free of the boot as the wyvern pulled the sword from the ground, its head swinging around to them. Dean shifted the shield across his back and fell on top of Alis, as the spray of acid hit the shield covering them both.

Sam watched in horror as the acid began to eat through the metal. He saw Elbek jumping down from the side of the ravine, his sword in his hand, racing toward the creature.

Reflex kicked in and Sam swung the big axe in his hands, a looping underhand swing, as the wyvern raised its head for another attack. He felt the finely honed blade slice through the soft scales under the jaw, chopping through windpipe and arteries, muscle and tendon and bone as the head flew aside. A spurt of the acid erupted from the neck, and he leapt back from it, then scrambled over the limp neck and ran for his brother.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Dean had rolled onto his back, and Alis sliced through the leather strap holding the shield to him, the poisonous fumes filling the air around them. She struggled to get him sitting up so that she could pull the chainmail from his body before the acid ate through it and started on the leather jerkin beneath. Sam dropped to his knees behind Dean, gripping the bottom of the hauberk and jerking it upwards, pulling it over his brother's head as Alis and Elbek sliced through the jerkin and the shirt under it, staring at the liquid that had already soaked through it.

"In the river, get him in the river." Lyre screamed at them, and Sam and Elbek took Dean's arms and legs, running for the rough river, dumping him into it, Alis following behind them, half-submerging herself where spots and splashes had caught her arms.

The water diluted the remaining acid, the force of it scouring the skin, and the bone-chilling cold forced them out after a minute. Dean was unconscious, his skin blue-white from the shock and the cold of the water, his back pitted and gouged by the acid that had gotten through the layers of armour and clothing.

"We have to get him back to the village now. He needs Valenis." Lyre looked at the raw, half-eaten flesh, shaking her head. "Alis, you take him, we'll bring the remains of the wyvern."

Sam shook his head. "I'll take him. He's my brother."

Alis looked up at him, her face pale and drawn. "No Sam, I can go more quickly than you can through the dark, I know the way better. You are strong, you can be of more help here."

She untied her horse and Dean's, leading them over to the men, pulling the soft bearskin cloak from her saddle. Sam took it from her, wrapping it around his brother, and he and Elbek lifted his limp form over the saddle of his horse, tying him loosely to the saddle, more or less upright. Alis mounted and took the reins of the other horse, drawing them up until Dean's horse stood close to hers. She closed her legs against the mare's sides, and pushed them forward, riding out of the ravine, glancing frequently to the man slumped on the horse beside her.

"Come on, the more quickly we can finish this, the quicker we'll be home." Lyre stared up at the night sky, the cloud was already lowering toward them, the air frigid.

They worked fast, cutting the claws and wings and heart free, flaying off the soft scales that covered the belly, cutting loose the jaws and taking the teeth. Sam sawed and pulled and cut and yanked at the creature's parts, passing them back to Lyre who wrapped them carefully and loaded the horses with them. The effort helped him not to think of Dean, of the terrible wounds, of the lack of medical knowledge in this time. He thought of what Alis had told them. The wyvern had magic, like the dragons. The parts they were taking would make medicines and amulets, protective clothing that could withstand the hydrochloric acid of the creature, and in the case of the belly scales, a vest that would withstand almost any direct attack from arrow or spear or sword. He hoped that what they had gained would be worth what his brother had lost.

* * *

Alis kept pushing the horses down the mountain, one hand on their reins, the other holding Dean's shoulder, keeping him mostly upright in the saddle, her balance automatic, unthinking as she followed the track back down the mountain.

He'd gotten the wounds trying to protect her. She remembered looking up at the wyvern's eye, seeing the head swivel around, the mouth open wide, being unable to move at the base of the rock, her head still ringing from hitting it as she'd fallen, then darkness as he'd covered her body, his breath harsh against her cheek, and the stifled scream as the acid had reached his skin.

It was a serious thing, a blood debt to a stranger. She bowed her head, feeling shame course through her veins, making her feel leaden with fear. Even more serious was the injury to a guest, a guest of the village, a guest of Vasiliĭ's house, under her protection. She would have to pay for that injury, she knew. The thought didn't trouble her as much as arriving at the village with a corpse. So long as he was alive, Valenis would heal him, she knew that, her mother was the greatest healer from the snow in the north to the deserts of the south, and she could heal him, if he lived.

She closed her legs against her mount and the mare obligingly started to jog as they reached the flatter reaches of the upper pastures. Alis closed her fingers more tightly around Dean's shoulder and kept the two horses together as she saw the village fires in the distance.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

* * *

Sam, Lyre and Elbek came through the gates as the blizzard hit, the howling wind and swirling snow reducing their vision to a few yards, the bitter cold numbing their hands and faces, even in the short distance from the gates to the barn. They opened the wide doors and led their horses in, seeing Alis' and Dean's horses already settled in a pen at the far end. Sam and Elbek struggled to close the doors against the force of the storm as Lyre led the horses deeper inside, unloading the wyvern carcass and hanging the still dripping sacks from the beams.

The men joined her to unsaddle the horses and rub them down lightly, once the doors were secured tightly. The three of them pulled hay from the stack, and dumped it into the pens, checked there was water for them, and left them finally to eat in peace.

Lyre was aching with tiredness and the cold, and she felt herself shiver slightly from the reaction of what had happened in the hunt. It was never good to have an injury and that had been one of the worst she'd seen. She followed Sam and Elbek out the smaller postern door, and hurried up the frozen, muddy path to the keep, her eyes almost closed as the stinging snowflakes blew hard against them.

* * *

They stopped inside the great doors, stripping off their weapons and armour and leaving it in piles against the walls. Sam stared around the hall, looking for Valenis. Vasiliĭ saw them come in and walked to them, his face serious.

"Sam, my deepest apologies for the injuries to your brother." The leader said when he reached them.

Sam blinked. "Vasiliĭ, no apology is needed. It was unfortunate, bad luck only."

The hint of anger in Vasiliĭ 's face made him turn to look at Lyre and Elbek, standing behind him, their gazes on the ground. He frowned, feeling the gravity of the situation without knowing why. _What the hell is going on here?_ He looked back to Vasiliĭ.

"Is Dean alright? Has Valenis seen him?" A thought occurred to him, filling him with panic. "He's not – he didn't – he made it back alright, didn't he?"

Vasiliĭ nodded quickly, the anger in his face replaced by alarm as he followed Sam's thoughts. "Yes, he's alive, Valenis is with him now. She is a truly great healer, Sam, he will be alright."

"Come, eat, sit by the fire and get warm, you can see him soon." He put his arm around the tall young man, and drew him to the table by the fire, Lyre and Elbek following more slowly behind them.

"Eat, rest." Vasiliĭ gestured to the food. He turned from the table and walked across the hall, stopping next to Torvga, the two men standing close together, heads bent as they talked quietly.

The table held plates and bowls of food, a basket of fresh bread, and Sam sat down gratefully, eating quickly. He looked up as Alis came down the stairs slowly, and walked to where her father and Vasiliĭ were standing on the other side of the room.

Sam watched the three of them, his forehead creasing as he saw Torvga's pained expression, the cold anger in the leader's face, the penitence of Alis' bowed head. He turned to Elbek.

"What's going on?"

Elbek glanced up at the three on the other side and back to his food again. "Alis risked a guest. It was her carelessness that brought the injury to your brother. She has to pay for that injury, and for the insult to you and your brother."

"What?" Sam's head snapped around to look at Elbek. "It was an accident, we all saw it, and it was Dean's choice to put himself between her and the wyvern. And she got him back here, got him to safety."

Lyre shrugged. "It doesn't matter, Sam. For a hunter, one who wants to survive, there are no accidents. There is only carelessness, negligence, recklessness. Alis is lucky, Vasiliĭ is a good leader. At my village, the leader would beat anyone who put a guest at risk."

Elbek nodded, tucking his food into his cheek to add his experiences. "Where I come from, offering or causing harm to a guest, the punishment would be stoning."

Sam started to rise, and felt Elbek's hand on his arm. "Don't, Sam. You'll make things worse for her if you attempt to intervene. She will have a few more chores, that's all."

He sat down again, finishing his food, feeling the fire warming his back, chasing away the cold of the past few hours. When he'd eaten enough to quell the chill inside of him, he stood, and walked to the stairs. He needed to see his brother.

* * *

Valenis looked up as Sam came in. Dean lay prone and still on the furs of his bed, the fire built up in the room, the air warm and dry. Castiel slept in his nest of fur and blankets, the angel's soft snoring barely audible over the crackle of the wood in the hearth.

"He will be alright, Sam, in a few weeks he will be able to do everything he could before." She turned back to the man lying beside her, smoothing a handful of sweet-smelling unguent over his skin, covering the raw flesh completely.

"Is he conscious? Has he been conscious?" Sam walked to her, and sat down near his brother, looking at Valenis, rather than the mess of his brother's back.

"He woke briefly, when we brought him in here. The burns, acid burns are very painful. His body shut down quite quickly, to give him relief, and the salve has many herbs in it, for healing, and to numb his skin, and keep the pain from rising while he sleeps."

He looked down at Dean's face. His brother looked peaceful. He always looked peaceful when he slept, Sam thought. Younger, without the strain that awake, he seemed to carry wherever he went.

"Alis shouldn't be punished. It wasn't her fault," he said quietly to the healer.

Valenis looked up at him, her lips rising very slightly. "Our customs are different to yours, Sam. I think that our lives must be harder than the one you are used to. A hunter who makes a mistake, endangers their own life and often the lives of others. In this life, usually only one such mistake is made, and it is fatal, there and then."

She looked back down and took another handful of the unguent from the bowl beside her, spreading it smoothly over Dean's lower back.

"Your brother attempted to save Alis?"

Sam nodded. "Her boot caught as she slipped on some ice at the top of the rock. He put his sword through the wyvern, pinned it down for a moment or two, but the tail caught him and he ended up right next to her, getting her free. She hit her head on the rock as she fell, he dropped on top of her as the wyvern spat."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "Then there are many errors my daughter made. Not checking her footing for ice, for security. Allowing her boot to become caught. Not freeing herself, not falling correctly." She looked up at him. "It's actually a miracle she survived any one of those errors, let alone all of them."

Sam frowned. "Sometimes you get bad luck, it happens."

Valenis' smiled widened. "There is no such thing as this thing you call luck, Sam. For people to survive, in a land like this, or those that are worse, to the north, one must be vigilant, all the time, aware, careful, understanding of the risks and of the possible pitfalls or traps. If you lack concentration, if you lack awareness … you die."

"It was Dean's choice, to protect her. She didn't ask him." He didn't add that his brother would have done the same thing for anyone, it was how he was wired. He'd have to remember to tell him about this, when he came to.

The healer shrugged. "If she hadn't been careless, he would have had no need."

Sam looked down, scowling. Valenis looked at the expression on his face, her smile wry. She turned back to what she was doing, spreading the unguent thickly over the cleaned wounds.

"Elbek said she would get a few more chores." Sam swallowed his sense of injustice, seeing that he wasn't going to convince the healer anyway, and he didn't want to create any feelings of ill-will between them. "What did that mean?"

"She will have to help your brother to heal. She will be forbidden to hunt for a while." Valenis smoothed out the last edges of the salve, looking down critically. "She will be working in the village for a time, until she learns not to be careless of her own safety, or anyone else's."

Sam sighed. It didn't sound so bad, he thought. Perhaps he was overreacting. "Lyre said that in her village, the leader beat people who risked a guest?"

"Yes, the further south you travel, the more important the idea of a guest, someone under your protection, becomes. It may be a result of the lands that have harsh conditions. I'm not sure, although it is similar where I was born, and that is a harsh land indeed. And in the deep deserts, far, far to the south, if a village invites you to share their bread, they are honour-bound to keep you safe, to protect you at all costs."

Sam thought of the countries she was talking about. Arabia, perhaps, Egypt, what would become Palestine and Jordan, Israel. He knew a little of their histories, but warfare had been more prevalent than the concepts of honour and the protection of people in his lifetime.

* * *

Dean woke slowly, aware that the room was warm, warm enough for him to be half uncovered by the furs on the bed. He shifted, drawing his arm forward to sit up, and froze as pain sheeted down his back, the nerves and muscles shrieking at him. He dropped down again, shuddering as the waves of pain swept across him, making his heart race, making it hard to breathe.

"Don't move," he felt a hand on his forearm, heard the whispered instruction near his ear. _Too late_, he wanted to say, but couldn't get the words out.

He felt something cool and sticky being spread over his skin, over his back, the touch featherlight, the substance releasing a scent of honey and herbs. Closing his eyes, he thought back to the hunt, remembering his shock at the sight of the wyvern, the goddamned thing the size of a car, its deadly speed, and seeing Alis at the top of the rock, falling.

"Alis?"

"Don't talk, try to keep still." Her voice was stronger now, as she saw the involuntary twitching of his muscles and skin begin to slow, to stop. "The wyvern's acid burned your back. Valenis has seen you, you must stay still, let the medicines work."

He could feel the pain beginning to recede, whatever it was she was doing, it was working. He was hungry and thirsty. And he needed to know that his brother was alright.

Alis watched the side of his face, seeing expressions pass across it. "Sam is fine. He and Elbek killed the wyvern, and made it back just as the storm came down. You will have to eat only … ah … soft foods, liquids for a few days, Dean, until you are able to move again."

He felt her move away, the furs under him shifting slightly as her weight was lifted. He waited, listening to the sounds in the room, a soft muttering to his right, the gentle clink of the clay cups somewhere near the table, the crackle of the fire in the hearth. The pain was still there, he could feel it at the edge of his mind, but it was distant now. He wondered why Alis was here, looking after him. Gratitude didn't really seem to be her thing.

The furs dipped again, and he opened his eyes, seeing a cup in front of his face, a narrow, hollow reed protruding from it. Alis' hand guided it to his mouth and he drank the warm tea through the primitive straw, the taste clearing the coating from his mouth, soothing the dryness of his throat.

"I will bring you some broth, in a little while," Alis said quietly. "Try and sleep, your body is trying to heal, it needs time."

He rolled his eyes up to her, and saw her cut her own away, not meeting his. She was very subdued, he thought, not even the slightest glint of humour in her face. He'd been expecting some tart comment about getting injured.

The door to the room opened and Dean shifted his gaze to a pair of over-sized boots, hurrying across the floor to him.

"Dean." Sam dropped to his knees in front of him.

"Sam, he needs to be still. The salve is taking the pain away again, Dean, yes?" Alis looked at Dean as she got to her feet.

"Uh, yeah." His throat was working better, he didn't feel the urge to cough anymore. His back felt numb and cool, from shoulder to the base of his spine. He was tempted to test it, but the memory of the recent attempt was still fresh and he resisted.

"Uh, okay." Sam stretched on the floor beside his brother, their eyes on a level. "The acid that the wyvern spits is a pretty strong hydrochloric compound."

Dean looked at him blankly. Sam sighed.

"Hydrochloric acid is what most creatures, including us, have in our stomachs, to digest food. The wyvern's formula, though, is more powerful."

"That's interesting, Sam, but I don't really care what it is. How bad is it?" He rolled his eyes toward his back. "How long am I out of action?"

"Valenis said it would be a week before you could move at all, without pain." He glanced the thick yellowish grey coating of unguent spread over Dean's back. "The salve she's got on will speed up the healing a lot, and numb your nerves to a certain extent. But some of the acid went into the muscles, they'll take longer to heal out from the inside."

Dean exhaled. "Awesome."

Sam shrugged. "You're alive. Another few seconds and you probably wouldn't have made it."

He saw the prompt dismissal of his near death in his brother's eyes, and sighed inwardly.

"How are the walls going?" Dean thought about all the jobs he was supposed to be looking after, jobs that meant the safety of the village, the safety of the people in it.

"They'll be finished tomorrow. We'll pack the fill at first light, if the storm lets up."

"This really sucks, you know." Dean closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, at least the first time since he was four years old, he felt like he belonged somewhere. Twenty three hundred years before he'd been born, and not even in the States, but this life, these people, they were all hunters, they all knew exactly what it meant to hunt the creatures of the night, to deal with nightmares, to lose and to win. He realised suddenly that aside from not being strictly truthful about his origins, in another time, another land, he hadn't had to tell anyone here a single lie.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Dean opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "No, I mean it really sucks. These people need all the help they can get, and I can't afford to be out of action for too long."

"They'll manage, Dean. They managed before we turned up." Sam looked at him.

"Yeah, but they didn't have to deal with demon armies before we turned up."

"No."

Sam looked across the room, where Alis sat by the hearth. "Listen, what you did, it had some consequences."

"What I did?" Dean frowned into the furs. "What do you mean?"

"Alis is under house arrest for putting a guest of the village in danger, for getting you injured." Sam saw his brother's eyes widen and his mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "It's the way it works here, man. They don't regard an accident as bad luck, just carelessness. So no more chivalry, it seems to backfire."

"She would have been killed."

"Yeah, apparently them's the breaks." Sam lifted a shoulder, looking at him. "Vasiliĭ apologised to me for your injuries, Dean. He was ashamed that someone from his village had brought you harm."

"That's such bullshit." Dean muttered, understanding the girl's reticence with him now.

"Yeah, but when in Rome, dude. Just so you know."

"Alright, sure." Dean looked over at his brother, not wanting to argue with him. "Did the storm do any damage to the fields?"

Sam shook his head, relieved to be on a safer topic. "No, in fact they seemed pleased about the snowfall on the fields, more moisture for the seeds."

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted slightly. "Well, that's something I guess."

* * *

The storm had been the last of the winter season. The days that followed were bright with sunshine, the air mild and the skies clear. Sam checked that the work Dean had begun was finished, or progressing satisfactorily. He went out with the hunters, Lyre and Elbek, Rascha and Yuri, to the forests every day. They brought back deer and rabbit, pheasant and wild geese, adding to the village's supplies, providing fresh meat for the extra work that everyone was doing. He often saw Ruane, leading the younger women down the river in the early mornings, hunting for the new greens that were beginning to appear.

Castiel was up more now, wrapped in furs and accompanied by Guin or Valenis, he looked over the new defences and spent long hours with Vasiliĭ , planning as much as was possible as they waited for the scouts to return.

In the fields the first shoots of the crops had pushed through the worked soils, misting the ground with a bright green. The village's population had been almost halved in the fight at Black Valley, and many of those killed had been the young men and women of the next generation. Despite the sadness that filled the hearts of those who'd survived, Sam watched them making their preparations for the festivals of the Spring equinox with laughter and determination.

He thought of their life, his and his brother's, of those they'd lost, of their despair at those losses, and silently marvelled at the resilience of the people here. Valenis had been right, he thought. In comparison to the hardships here, their life had been easier. It hadn't felt that way, and he knew that to his brother, it would never feel that way, but it had been.

* * *

Castiel drew the thick fur more closely around him as he looked down the valley. The sunshine was bright but lacked real warmth. Every morning he came out to the watch tower, looking south for some sign that the scouts were returning. The urgency of taking action against the Qaddiysh was throbbing in his bones, through his veins. The longer they waited, the more damage would be done, both to the people living in this time, and to the future.

Guin came up silently behind him, following his gaze down the valley, then looking up at his face, seeing the dark brows drawn together, the deep blue eyes narrowed in worry.

"Casteel."

He turned to look down at her, his face smoothing out as he took in the curiosity in hers. The relationship between them was still comforting, still soothing, he thought, but there were currents he couldn't quite see, sometimes her actions were inexplicable to him.

"Valenis wishes to speak to you, about Penemue." She turned away, moving back to the broad stone stairs. Castiel hurried to follow her, noting that his vessel seemed to be much stronger now.

Valenis was sitting in the weaver's rooms, using a simple drop spindle, feeding fleece in, the yarn gathering on her lap. She looked up as they entered the room, finishing the last few pieces of fleece, and putting the spindle aside.

"Penemue said that an army is moving, heading north from Sumeria, along the banks of the Tigris. He said that they will pass through the mountains next week, be near the coast in a month."

Castiel sat down slowly, staring at her. "How many?"

She lifted her chin, her eyes worried. "He said he counted thirty thousand men, all warriors, all on horseback."

"Thirty thousand?" Castiel leaned back against the wall. Thirty thousand horse soldiers? Wherever they went, they would massacre the population, or enslave them. He leaned forward, resting his head against his hands as he tried to get past the shock and deal with the information.

Valenis watched him. "There is more, Casteel."

He looked up at her, not wanting to hear it.

"Penemue saw a second army. He said he saw it through the eyes of an angel, in the north, the Western Steppes, gathering along the foothills of the mountains."

Two armies. Possessed horse archers. Led by fallen angels. He sat up and stared in front of him. What possible purpose could the Qaddiysh have for this region, these people. There was the Gate, in Azerbaijan. But no Watcher would have opened it, not even the most corrupt. He shook his head. If not one of the Watchers, who had led the yellow men to massacre the thousands that had opened that Gate? None of this was making sense, he needed more information. He looked down at the floor. He needed to speak with his brothers.

He looked up at Valenis. "I must speak with Penemue, with the Qaddiysh who have not turned against humankind, in the south." He saw her lips compress tightly.

"Casteel, a journey like that, even in normal times, without the dangers that are abroad now, it would take too much from you. You would risk your life this way?"

"At least Penemue." He knew where the Watcher was, in the mountains to the south, the range that separated Georgia from Turkey. "I could ride, I could rest. But I must see him, Valenis. This world depends on it."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps he could come to you?"

"Perhaps."

"I will ask him. Now." She stood quickly, looking at Guin who was spinning the soft fleeces silently at her wheel in the corner. "Guin, please make sure Casteel rests now. Even if his mind will not let him sleep, his body should be quiet."

Guin glanced at the angel, an eyebrow raised. She hadn't had a great deal of success in convincing him to do as she asked. He looked back at her, and shrugged. He would not sleep, could not sleep, but to preserve the peace, he would lie down, rest his body.

Valenis strode from the room, and Castiel looked around, as Guin stood and walked to him.

"She's right, you know. It is a long journey, even when times are good, and a hard one, even in the summer months." She gestured to the bed of straw and fern, covered with soft blankets of woven fleece and furs.

"I am healing, Guin, the headaches have almost gone." He walked reluctantly to the bed, sitting down.

She smiled at him. "Yes, but would you undo that?"

He looked at her as she knelt beside him. "Someone has started something here, Guin. And it will not end with just this war, just these attacks. This is a beginning."

He allowed her to push him gently back, sinking into the softness of the covers.

"I must know what they are planning. It will affect everything –"

"You must rest, so that when the time comes and we need you to lead us, you will be strong enough." She leaned over him, looking down into his face. His eyes widened slightly.

"Lead you? No, I am not –"

Guin bent forward, her lips pressing against his, cutting off the words. Castiel froze, the sensations of her mouth, of her lips on his, wiping out his thoughts, making his heart beat accelerate, his breath come short in his chest. He felt a stirring in his vessel, a point of heat rising up and spreading out.

She lifted her head, and looked into his eyes. "Rest, Casteel."

"Why did you do that?"

"You do not know?" She lifted her hand, laying it against his cheek, looking into his eyes. "Perhaps you don't."

She drew away, getting to her feet. He heard her steps, light on the stone. A moment later he heard the soft whirring of the spinning wheel as she resumed her work. Why had she … kissed him? He could still feel the heat inside of his vessel, heat and an ache, for what, he wasn't sure. His heart was slowing down now, and he could again get air in and out of his lungs, but the ache persisted.

He closed his eyes, tried to remember what he'd been thinking about before she'd … kissed him.

It was gone.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

* * *

Dean sat up slowly, the muscles of his back still twinging if he moved too fast. He wondered how long it would take him to get back to being useful again.

As if she'd read his mind, Alis made a face at him. "It's only been four weeks. You will be fit again soon enough." She looked down at the low table beside her, making sure that she had everything she needed.

Dean followed her glance, uncertain now that this was such a good idea. "You know, I could probably do this myself."

He scratched at the beard that had grown in over his jaw and cheeks. It might have been a help in the winter, he thought, but with the coming of the summer, the warm nights and thick humidity, it was a mini torture chamber for his face.

"Stop worrying." Alis turned back to him, helping him to the edge of the table. "You would cut your throat and I would be blamed for not looking after you properly."

He smiled reluctantly at the acerbic tone in her voice. She'd apologised to him, many times now, for putting him into danger, for the injuries he'd sustained on her behalf, and for the first couple of weeks, she'd been solicitous and gentle and kind with him. But as he'd gotten more movement, and less pain, the sharpness had returned to her tongue, and the enforced closeness over the past four weeks was rubbing them both up the wrong way.

"Lean your head back." Her hand reached around to touch his forehead. He tipped his head back, seeing her face upside down behind him. He felt the warm water spill through his hair, heard the splashing as it trickled back into the bowl. Her fingers were light and deft, washing the hair quickly, pouring the clean water through it. He closed his eyes, a little surprised at how good it felt, how relaxing it was, how … intimate it felt. Her fingers moved over his scalp, in small, circular motions and he let out his breath softly, as the slight tension in his shoulders disappeared.

"Don't fall asleep." Alis looked down at him, seeing the softness in his face. He smiled without opening his eyes, missing the scowl that drew her brows together behind him.

He felt her fingers comb through his hair, closing and holding it as she ran the razor sharp knife blade under them, discarding the cut hair held between them. She thought privately he would look better with his hair a little longer, but he'd asked for it to be short, and she was honour-bound to him for another four weeks. The sooner he healed, the better she'd like it, she thought, refusing to look too closely at why that might be so.

"Sit up for a moment." She walked around in front of him, and he lifted his head, as she bent slightly, her face close to his, her fingers slipping through his hair as she tried to see if she had cut evenly to both sides. It looked about the same as when he'd arrived, she thought, her concentration focussed on the length, missing the way his eyes had widened slightly, his lips had parted.

She straightened up, and put her hands on her hips, looking down at him. "That is done. Put your head back again."

He tipped it back, and heard her take a cloth from the bowl, felt the moisture cover his face, wetting the beard, his cheeks and throat. This was the bit he wasn't so sure about. He'd seen the knife she'd brought, a long, narrow blade that she'd sharpened again, seen her drop one of the cloths over the edge, and the cloth part on the edge under its own weight. That was sharp. That was very, very sharp. And he was offering his throat to it.

"If I'd wanted to cut your throat, I could have done it anytime." Her tone was dry, and he realised that his doubts were showing on his face. He smiled weakly.

"It's not – just don't make a mistake, okay?"

He heard the loud exhale beside him and closed his mouth. The smell of soap rose to his nostrils as her fingers rubbed through the wet beard, tiny bubbles bursting against his skin. She seemed to be thorough, he thought, or maybe she was as nervous about the next part as he was. _Now there was a comforting thought_.

The edge of the knife's blade slid along under his cheekbone, and he held his breath. It was sharp enough to slice through the hair, not tug at it as it moved, and he felt her fingers stretching out his skin very slowly and gently as she worked down the cheek to his jawline.

All he needed was a goddamned mirror, and he could have done this himself. Sam had told him that although the use and the making of mirrors, of metal or stone, highly polished for their reflective surfaces, was already well known in this time, the habit hadn't really caught on here. He'd tell his brother to get moving on making some pronto.

The blade slid over his soapy skin easily, and he could feel the air, cool against the freshly bared skin, where she'd been.

It occurred to him that the next time he agreed to help out Castiel, he should pack some essentials to take with him. Razor, toothbrush, whiskey … he missed whiskey, maybe Sam would know how to make it here? The wine and mead were okay, but they didn't have the impact of a decent proof bottle of Scotch.

He lifted his head further as he felt the blade touch the skin of his throat. _So many curves there_. Alis drew the blade up steadily, stretching out the skin, leaning close now, so that he could feel her breath against his neck. The knife edge moved lightly over the curve of his jaw and she lifted it, looking down as he released the breath he'd been holding with an explosive huff.

"You don't trust me at all, do you?" She rinsed the blade in the bowl, and stropped it lightly over the thick band of leather hanging from her belt a few more times.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "Um … not really, no."

He was surprised to see her smile, a wide, open grin that lit up her eyes and filled them with silent laughter.

"That seems fair." The smile vanished, leaving only a ghost of it in her eyes, that fading too as she moved around him, adding a little more soap to the hair on the other side of his face.

He inclined his head away from her, the skin smoothing out. The blade slid over the planes smoothly, she was moving it a little faster now, more confident than she'd been on the first side.

He'd seen that smile a few times, but it had never been directed at him. Elbek got the lion's share of it, he thought, the dark hunter flirting with her at every opportunity. He hadn't really thought about any of the women in the village in quite that way, the realities of their situation taking precedence over any attractions he might have normally felt like indulging.

Alis wiped the soap from the side of his face, frowning slightly as she looked at what was left. The throat, of course, although she felt easier about that, having done the other side. The curves of his chin, and around his mouth, they would be more challenging. She pulled in a breath and wet the cloth again, adding a little more soap to the areas, rinsing the blade and checking its sharpness.

Most of the men in the village, and the surrounding areas had beards. Even for the young men, it was a milestone in their maturity to be able to grow a full beard, and they were forever commenting or insulting each other on the progress or lack thereof of their attempts. She stood in front of him, and lifted the knife, realising abruptly that she was too far away to be able to control the blade with sufficient accuracy.

"Move your legs, I need to get closer," she said shortly. Dean opened his eyes, and looked at her, standing in front of him. He shifted his legs apart, and she stepped between them, leaning close to his face as she looked at the difficulties his chin presented for the straight edge of the blade.

"Lift your head a bit higher?"

He felt his eyes cross as he tried to focus on her, aware that his heart was beating a little faster, his breath was a little ragged in his throat. She raised her eyes to his.

"Don't move."

He felt the strangled laugh die in his throat. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to.

He could barely feel the edge as it slipped down over his lip, and she moved it along, taking short strips from one side to the other. He drew his lower lip up over his teeth, flattening out the skin and muscle underneath as she shifted her grip and shaved the hair neatly and quickly from the area.

She wiped the soap away and looked critically around his mouth. It was good, she thought, closer to the skin than she'd seen any of the men manage. Elbek preferred to be clean-skinned in the summer, but he just dragged his knife across his face, leaving a prickly stubble, not smooth skin. Just the other side of the throat, and it would be finished. She wondered briefly how often he would have to do this. How often _she_ would have to do this, she corrected herself with another flash of annoyance.

When she finished the throat, she soaked the cloth again, washing the soap from his skin, drying it with a clean, dry cloth. She moved away from him, to the table, and began to put her things away, sliding the long, slim knife back into the sheath that lay against the back of her hip.

Dean eased himself forward, and lifted his hand, running it over his hair, feeling the length, very close to how it'd been when they'd first arrived. He ran his fingers over his face, closing his eyes. The skin was completely smooth, he couldn't remember ever having managed a shave this close before. He'd have a week or so before they needed to go through this again. He hoped that he could convince his brother to cobble up some sort of reflective surface for him before then. As good a job as she'd done, the tension of it really wasn't worth it.

* * *

Valenis looked over the clean skin of his back, her eyes narrowed critically. Dean looked around the room. Alis had brought him to the healer's house for the checkup, and he had to work to keep his face expressionless, because the room, the house, was so entirely a witch's house, he was having difficulty with his automatic reactions. It was a single room, spanning the width of the house. At one end, where they'd entered through the thick-plank door, it seemed fairly ordinary. A wide stone hearth, low table, thick cushions surrounding it, a simple wooden spinning wheel and small loom, filled the space. The kitchen area, where he sat, was a different matter. Dried and drying herbs hung in bunches from the low beams that supported the ceiling, another large hearth, the fire lit and warming him, was set in the wall, an iron frame for holding pots and a griddle pushed to one side now. The table was higher, with simple three-legged wooden stools surrounding it. Shelving, built from thick planks, covered the walls, and the shelves were full of baskets and bowls, simply made bundles of candles, dried and preserved food in clay pots, salves and unguents and liquids, the small skulls of several animals, and in the corner, the boiled and cleaned teeth, claws and wing bones of the wyvern, the myriad of scents strengthened by the warmth of the fire here, filling his head.

"Dean, twist to the right, just the body, not your hips." Valenis' voice broke through his thoughts.

He twisted slowly, expecting at least a twinge, surprised when none manifested.

"The other way?"

His back felt stiff but the pain had gone. He felt her fingers move over his skin, some parts he couldn't feel anything, the nerve endings had been cauterised by the acid and wouldn't regrow, but he had enough feeling left.

"Lift your arms, high above your head."

He stretched up, feeling the pull of the muscles and skin in his back. Still no pain. Just the stiffness, of not using those muscles for a while. He heard her stand up behind him, and looked back over his shoulder.

"You are a quick healer." She smiled as she caught his expression. "You may begin training again."

He nodded, glancing at Alis. She sat at the other end of the table, her gaze on the flames in the hearth.

"Take it easy to start with," Valenis cautioned him quietly. "They are very stiff right now." She turned her gaze to her daughter. "Alis, the comfrey and mallowroot salve, you should work that into his back until the stiffness is gone, every night, and any time that the muscles feel sore or strained."

Alis' head snapped up to stare at her mother, then she sighed and got up, going to a shelf and picking up a wide-mouthed clay pot.

Dean looked from her to Valenis. He was okay again, the enforced care was getting old for both of them.

"I can work it out with exercise," he said to Valenis. She shook her head.

"Of course you can, but this will help, it will make it faster, easier. And that is a healer's job." She didn't look at Alis, but the tone in her voice was clear.

Great, he thought, another reason for her to feel resentful. He stood up, pulling the soft shirt over his head.

* * *

Sam sat on the low stone bench outside Torvga's workshop, absently sharpening his sword while he waited for his brother. In three days, it would be midsummer, he thought, and the scouts still hadn't returned. The inability to communicate effectively beyond a few miles was getting to him.

Cas had told them of Penemue's intelligence, the armies gathering to the north and south, apparently hell-bent on taking the mountains for reasons that none of them could work out. The lands were fertile, but too rocky and too harsh for large populations to be sustainable. The passes through the ranges were unpredictable, could be closed by snow even in high summer. The populations to the north, in Russia and Belarus, the Ukraine and further west, were minimal, and the rich mineral wealth of the region wouldn't become important to trade or economy for another thousand years, when technology was sufficiently advanced to make the difficulty of extracting them from the ground worthwhile.

There was absolutely no reason for this region to be fought over. The only Gate was in Azerbaijan, hundreds of miles to the east, in the rich lands that edged the Caspian Sea. _Easier route, easier pickings, understandable target_.

He shook his head, looking up as he heard the door to the healer's house open behind him.

Dean walked out, blinking slightly in the bright sunshine. "All good, just stiff."

Alis came out behind him, holding the pot of salve, her face closed and tense, as she strode on past them and up to the keep. Sam glanced at her rapidly retreating back and then his brother. Dean saw the question and shrugged.

"Good." Sam slid the sword back into its scabbard, and tucked the oiled stone into the soft leather pouch that hung from his belt. He was slowly getting used to the clothing, having the sword bounce against his thigh whenever he walked anywhere, but he missed the simplicity of his old clothes, the gun tucked into a pocket or sitting in the small of his back.

Valenis emerged a moment later. "Can you tell Casteel that Penemue is almost at Black Valley. He will be here in a couple more days."

Sam nodded. Maybe they would get some answers now.

* * *

Castiel looked at them, seeing the changes in both over the past few months. Sam looked comfortable, at home in this place, he thought, and at the same time, as if he was ready to leave. Dean … Dean he wasn't sure about. The despair that had filled him, in their own time, their own land, seemed to be gone. He couldn't see that anything had taken its place, exactly. The man spent a lot of time with Vasiliĭ, both determined to protect the village to the utmost of their combined ability. Perhaps that streak of responsibility had simply resurfaced here, the angel mused. Perhaps in this land of hunters and monsters, he was finding a place he could belong.

"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." Sam frowned at the table in front of him. "We're assuming that the Qaddiysh are responsible, for the deal with Hell, for opening the Gate –"

"No Watcher, no angel, fallen or otherwise, would open a Gate," Castiel said with certainty.

"That's what I mean, Cas. If one of the Watchers didn't do it, who did?"

He stopped, something that Vasiliĭ had said, when they'd discussed the opening of the Gate, catching at his mind, snagging there, "Vasiliĭ said the force that had opened the Gate three years ago in Azerbaijan were from China, or Mongolia, perhaps. Yellow men, he called them."

Castiel nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, that's what he said."

"The Qaddiysh couldn't have controlled that force. Penemue told you that they didn't turn until after that had happened?" Sam looked at him. "We've been assuming that one or more of them did, but maybe that was a … necessary prelude to what's happening now, and it wasn't them."

"Your speculation is that there is someone else, someone stronger than the Qaddiysh who has been planning this and has control of them?"

Sam's mouth twisted. "Well, yeah. It doesn't sound likely, but it's possible, right?"

"All things are possible." The angel sighed.

Dean looked from Cas to his brother. "Would a witch … or a sorcerer be strong enough to kick start this, control the fallen angels?"

Sam's brow creased. "I wouldn't have thought so."

Castiel also frowned, staring at Dean. "Why do you ask that?"

Dean shrugged. "Alis said something about a black magician, to the north, who'd worked some pretty powerful mojo."

"It would take enormous … mojo … to control both angels and demons." Castiel rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers tiredly. "But I suppose it might be possible. It might explain why the Qaddiysh have become active. They haven't strayed far from the lands they settled since the Flood, and dealing with demonkind … it is extremely risky for them."

"It might explain why these mountains are important," Sam said quietly. "Civilisation has been growing and developing rapidly throughout Asia, the Middle East and lower Europe. The trade routes and the cities they pass through have been growing exponentially. But the north … is barely populated, the people are still quite primitive … if someone wanted more people, bigger populations, greater growth, then a route through here would be important."

"It would be easier to go along the Caspian Sea, or between Georgia and Turkey and across the Black Sea than to force a road through here, Sam," Castiel pointed out.

"Yeah, maybe. But we're not really dealing with a huge logic here, Cas. There's planning and there's power, but it seems more personally motivated to me." Sam looked at the angel. "Maybe it doesn't have to do with expansion or empire-building, but with something else."

Castiel thought about that. It wasn't like the empire expansions he'd seen. Even the enslavement of the demons into the Scythian soldiers had been expeditious rather than a long term strategy. None of the demons could be extracted once bound in. Whoever had created this, had wanted an army that could not be defeated, an army that could not be stopped. For a single purpose. Expendable once the job had been done. Perhaps Sam was right.

"I will speak to Vasiliĭ."

"I've got an hour's training to get through." Sam got to his feet, looking down at his brother. "You coming?"

"Yeah." Dean rolled to his feet. Castiel looked up at him.

"Ah, I'd like to talk to you for a moment, Dean." He looked at Sam apologetically. "Uh, privately."

Dean glanced at Sam, who shrugged and left the room.

"What's up?"

Castiel looked down at his hands, resting on his crossed legs. "I need to know the appropriate response when being kissed."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Someone kissed you?"

The angel nodded. "Guin, a few days ago." He looked up at Dean. "I don't know why, or what I should have done."

Dean ran his hand over his face, hiding the smile that had risen involuntarily, and taking a breath. "Huh."

He looked at Castiel. "I'm thinking that she kissed you because she likes you, Cas. As far as what you should do … that depends on what you want."

"What do you mean?" The puzzlement in the deep blue eyes was genuine, and Dean felt another wave of laughter rising in him. He compressed his lips together tightly and waited until it passed.

"Uh, well, we've had this conversation before, Cas. Birds and the bees? Cloud seeding?" He shook his head. "Do you like her?"

"Yes, very much. She's very soothing to be around."

"Soothing? Yeah, okay, that's fine." He leaned toward the angel. "Did you, uh, feel anything else for her?"

Castiel looked away, and Dean grinned. "Uh huh, so you did."

"I'm not sure. There was a strange sensation in my vessel."

The snort came out before he could stop it. "I can imagine."

"This isn't funny, Dean. I don't know what to do."

"Yeah, no, I get that, Cas." He nodded, trying to damp down the images in his head. "You, uh, understand the phrase, more than just friends, Cas?"

"Not really."

Dean sighed. This had been easier when they were only talking about sex. He wasn't sure what the ramifications were in this time of taking someone to bed. Was it like an instant engagement, marriage, kids? Were there contraceptives in this time? He didn't think so.

"Cas, I don't know what the deal is with getting involved with the women here." He realised that this was going to affect him, sooner or later, as well. "We're not staying, and uh, without the usual protection, well, one of the consequences could be pretty long-term."

"Oh, I could prevent conception." Castiel looked at him seriously.

"Oh." Dean blinked. "Well, in that case, why not?"

"So, you're saying that if she kisses me, she wants to be more than just friends. And that I should have sex with her?"

Dean stared at the angel in bemusement. "Yeah. I guess that's what I'm saying."

"Thank you. That clears it up."

"Anytime."

He got to his feet, walking out of the room, not sure if he should be laughing at the angel, or feeling envious.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

* * *

The sky was still light, filled with a pale golden luminescence, the air warm and still, as Sam and Dean leaned on the stone wall of the watch tower, watching the preparations for the festival the following evening.

"So, what's the story with tomorrow night?" Dean turned his head to look at his brother.

"Summer solstice, midsummer's eve. It's a common festival, right around the world, usually related to fertility, for the blessings of the gods for the harvest, for the prosperity of the village." Sam stared at the crowd around the growing piles of wood that would be lit in the night, his eyes searching for one person. "Some places lit, uh, light the bonfires to call the attention of the gods, as a kind of sacrifice. Others light them to keep evil or monsters away from the village for the night," he paused, running a hand through his hair as the past myth segued into their current reality. "And here, that's seems to be the case, since the mountains have a pretty good collection of monsters."

"Alis said that the vamps come in the summertime."

Sam nodded. "The midsummer festival is probably the one time when everyone is outside, I would guess that's pretty easy pickings for vampires. Ruane told me that they won't come to the village, though, only to the woods on the far side of the river. Anyway, there'll be feasting and drinking, it's the night when anything goes, the usual taboos and social proprieties are ignored, or allowed."

"What do you mean?"

Sam glanced sideways at him, the corner of his mouth rising. "Tomorrow night, everyone here is probably going to get rip-roaring drunk, and spend the night with whoever they like. In some places, orgies are normal. I think here, it's likely to be more private, but it'll still be a free-for-all."

Dean's eyes widened. "You kidding?"

"Nope."

"Bring it on. Yeah, now that's what I'm talking about."

Sam snorted. "I thought you'd like the idea."

"I was meaning to ask about the the social, uh, consequences here, for … you know."

"Not much." Sam looked back down at the activity on the fields below them. "Sex is regarded pretty much as a normal activity. If the couple don't want to get married or form a permanent attachment, or a child is conceived and not wanted, there are herbs to stop the pregnancy, Valenis will give them to the women if need be."

"Oh. Right." Dean looked at his brother's profile, then followed his gaze down. "Good to know."

Sam smiled. "I'm impressed, you've held out longer than I thought you would."

"That's hilarious, it's not like I had a lot of free time –" His attention sharpened suddenly as he saw movement along the track to the south of the village. "What's that?"

Sam lifted his gaze, looking south. "Shit. I think that's one of the scouts. Come on."

He turned and ran for the stairs, his brother following him.

"Valenis!" Sam shouted as he ran past the smith's workshop, the house. She came out quickly.

"We're going to need you." Sam pointed to the gate, and kept running.

They reached the man and horse a few minutes later on the track. Sam caught him as he started to topple from the saddle, pushing him back up and holding him there as Dean took the reins and led the horse toward the gate.

Horse and rider were bloodied and thin, cuts and gashes crusted over with dried blood, covering both of them. Dean looked at the sharp points of the horse's shoulders and hips, the clear outlines of the ribs. This horse had been well-covered when the scout, Mika, had left. Now it looked like a walking skeleton. Both knees were swollen, and the animal was favouring the near front as well, a long split in the tough hoof wall speaking of very hard ground travelled at too great a speed.

He met his brother's eyes across the neck, glancing up at the man who sat unconscious in the saddle. His armour was gone, and his clothing had been shredded, even the tough hide vest was in ribbons.

"It's Mika," Sam said softly. "He left with Denya to find the army."

* * *

Valenis met them at the gate, and nodded to Sam. He let the man slide into his arms, shocked by the lack of weight of his body, and followed the healer into her house.

Dean led the mare to the barn, wincing as he saw the raw saddle galls as he lifted the saddle clear. He put her into a free pen, and refilled the water after she drank the full container already there. There was only dull pain in her eyes, and he felt his heart sink. Pulling an armful of hay from the stack at the back of the barn, he put it down next to her, waiting until she had taken at least a mouthful. If she ate, he thought, she might recover. He gathered the water and salt he needed to treat the galls, and mixed the solution, soaking each of the raw wounds and drying them. He'd ask Valenis later for herbs to keep infection out, he thought.

As he left the barn, he headed up the narrow track to the keep. Vasiliĭ and Cas would want to see the scout as soon as possible.

* * *

Sam laid the man on the bed of furs in the healer's house, standing aside as she knelt beside the bed, her fingers resting lightly on the young man's throat. She looked up at him after a moment.

"He'll live. He needs some time, food, rest." She looked back at Mika, and Sam turned and left the house, heading for the keep.

He came into the great hall and saw Dean talking to Vasiliĭ and Cas. The Watcher, Penemue, would be here in a couple of days as well. Perhaps they would finally get some of the answers they needed.

Vasiliĭ turned to him as he walked up to them. "What did Valenis say?"

"Mika will live. He needs time and rest, but he'll be all right." Sam glanced at Castiel. The angel's brows were drawn together and Sam could see the impatience to question the scout in the deep blue eyes.

"I don't think Valenis will let anyone talk to him tonight, Cas," he said quietly. "He's still unconscious anyway."

Castiel looked at him, and nodded shortly. "Tomorrow then."

He turned away from them abruptly and headed for the stairs.

Vasiliĭ watched him go, his craggy face thoughtful. "Casteel is worried."

"We all are. We can protect ourselves, even from an army of demons, I think, but not the fields, not the livestock and crops."

The leader nodded unhappily. "There is no point in protecting our lives if we have nothing to live on when winter comes again."

* * *

Alis sat in front of the hearth, her fingers flying as she stitched the cloth she held together, the expression on her face a combination of concentration and frustration.

She lifted her head as Dean walked in, catching his wince as he pulled off the leather vest and dropped it onto the pile of furs that was his bed.

"What have you done?"

He looked at her, hearing the peremptory tone of her voice, and shook his head. "Nothing. Just pulled a muscle."

He watched her lips purse in annoyance, and wished he'd kept silent. The general tension had gotten worse, he'd noticed, although he wasn't sure why.

"Lie down."

"It's nothing, it's fine." He walked to the bowl on the other side of the room and dipped his hands into the water, splashing it over his face and neck.

"I saw your face, Dean. It's not fine and this is why I am here."

He wiped his face, looking over his shoulder at her, hearing the annoyance in her voice. "Yeah, well, thanks, but I don't need you to worry about every little bump, Alis."

"I wouldn't be here right now if I had any choice in the matter. Until Vasiliĭ says my punishment is finished, I have to be here, and I have to make sure you are well. That is my job." Her voice had risen slightly, brows drawing together. She wasn't sure why he could spark such quick anger in her, taking care of him hadn't been such an onerous chore, but the more time she spent in his company, the more angry she became with him, and the more quickly it rose.

Dean stiffened and turned around, irritation turning straight into anger. "If lo- doing this is such a goddamned _punishment_, why the hell didn't you check your footing before you fell off that rock?"

"I didn't ask you to save me, to take the acid onto yourself!" Her eyes narrowed, her anger flaring to match his. "I didn't want you anywhere near me!"

"Don't worry, that's not a mistake I'm gonna make again." he snapped back at her. "And so far as I'm concerned, you can go as far away as you like."

"There's no place far enough away that I could go from you!"

"Alis!"

They both turned at Valenis' shocked exclamation. The healer stood at the open door, staring at her daughter. "Go and get Kiya, please. Now."

Alis turned away, striding fast past her mother and down the hallway.

"I apologise for my daughter, Dean. She has my temper, I'm afraid, and not the years of experience to counter-balance it."

Dean looked at her, and nodded slowly, turning away. He couldn't remember being in a fight that had escalated that quickly before. And it hadn't been just anger that had filled him, he realised as he walked across the room to the hearth. He shook off the thought that rose next. They'd just been together too long, he countered the unaddressed thought, forced into a closeness that was artificial, that had raised things that weren't real. He'd been in pain, injured, and she'd taken care of him, reluctantly but she'd still done it, and there wasn't anything more to it than that.

Valenis watched him carefully. She turned as Kiya stopped outside of the doorway.

"Kiya will look after you, Dean." She gestured to the young woman to come into the room. "She's my apprentice."

He turned around, looking at the girl in front of him. She was pretty, long dark hair falling down her back, and dark brown eyes watching him curiously. He smiled at her, and looked at Valenis.

"I'm okay, I don't need anyone's help, I've been looking after myself for a long time, Valenis."

The healer shrugged, as if the argument was specious. "The back is a difficult place to take care of yourself. The stiffness will go more quickly if you have some help." She looked at the set of his shoulders, at the tension in the muscles that ran from shoulder to neck. "You pulled a muscle today, didn't you? I can see it in the way you are holding yourself."

He stared at her stubbornly. "It'll sort itself out."

"Yes, eventually it will. But don't you want to be fit as quickly as possible? Isn't that what you told me? So that you could get back to your work, yes?"

He looked at her, seeing only sincerity in her face but feeling the artful manipulation. She had answers for everything, and it was an exercise in frustration trying to argue with her. And a part of him knew without having to be told that a guest honours the household, as much as the household honours the guest.

"Alright. Whatever." He turned away.

Valenis smiled. She nodded to Kiya and walked from the room, closing the door behind her. Alis needed a few strong words, although she had the feeling that her daughter's rudeness had come from feelings she would not admit to.

Kiya looked for the pot of salve, and walked hesitantly to the edge of the fur bed.

"Valenis is right, you know. I can see the tension and soreness in your shoulders and back from here."

He looked at her, looked at her small gesture to the furs beside her and gave in. Spikes of pain were shooting into the back of his head from the fight, his mind churning over the things she'd said, and the things she hadn't. He dropped down onto the warm furs and put his arms under his head, closing his eyes as Kiya knelt beside him, taking a scoop of salve with her fingers, and starting to work it into his back.

Within a few minutes, he realised that it was helping, it was helping a lot. The knots were dissolving, the tension disappearing, and her fingers were warm and firm against his skin, the pressure just enough to reach the muscle below. He let out his breath in a long sigh.

* * *

Sam found Ruane just outside the village walls the next morning. She was gathering flowers, her fingers deftly weaving the stems together to form a wreath.

"Hey."

She looked at him, a warm smile appearing on her face. "You are up early."

"What are you doing?" He looked down at her hands.

"Making an offering. We will be able to tell -," she hesitated for a moment, "- ah, tell our fortunes if we put them on the river tonight."

"You want to know what happens next?" He felt his lips twist up as he sat down beside her.

"Yes, don't you?"

"Not really." He sighed and leaned back on his elbows in the soft, thick grass. "Not knowing, I can still have hope of things working out."

She laughed softly. "Yes, I suppose that knowing the future would take away hope."

"Ruane." He sat up, looking at her. She turned to him, brows lifted expectantly.

"Uh, never mind." He shook his head and looked away.

Ruane watched him, wondering what he'd wanted to say, wanted to ask. He had been busy the last few weeks, going out with the hunters, watching over his brother's recovery, seeing that the projects Dean had begun were finished. She had thought, for a little while, that he'd liked her, wanted to be with her, but lately she hadn't been so sure about that.

"Will you be joining us tonight, for the festival?" she asked, tentatively.

"Yeah, I guess." Sam thought of his brother, rearing to get involved with what he'd termed the party to end all parties. He looked at her, swallowing, as an image rose in his mind.

She dropped her gaze, nodding. "Good. It's a fun night. There will be many women in the village who will be glad of your presence there."

He frowned, remembering what she'd told him the first night they'd eaten in the hall. Was it her way of gently brushing him off? Telling him that she wasn't interested, but there were plenty of others who were?

"Yeah, well …" he trailed off uncomfortably.

She looked at him from under her lashes. He didn't sound exactly thrilled at the prospect, she thought.

* * *

Castiel sat in the thick grass along the edge of the river, looking across the clearing, the tables piled high with food, firkins of wine and the deep golden ale that had been brewed with the remaining stocks of last harvest's barley, stone jugs of Valenis' mead, and baskets of early fruit. To one side of the grassy area, several of the villagers were playing bright music with simple reed flutes and pipes, stringed lutes and drums, many of the villagers adding their voices, strong and sweet, to the instruments. The clearing was full of people, everyone from the village had come out to eat and drink and dance on this most important of nights, of offerings to the gods for prosperity and fertility for the year.

He wasn't sure how he should feel about the pagan overtones of the festival, or what his Father might be thinking of him, sitting there in the midst of it. As Guin refilled his glass and he drank more of the rich wine, he decided it was a better idea not to worry about it.

He felt her hand slip into his a few moments later, and looked up at her, rising obediently as she drew him up, following her in bemusement into the copse of trees that surrounded the clearing. Beneath the shadows of the trees, the path was dark, and he stumbled several times, feeling her hand supporting him as he regained control of his feet. The music was still audible but distant when she stopped in a tiny clearing off the path, turning to him and slipping her arms around him.

He looked down at her, the moonlight showing her features, her face tipped back to look up at him. He felt her hand slip around his neck and draw his head down, his heart accelerate suddenly as her lips touched his and they sank to the soft ground. Dean had refused to give him any actual details of what he should be doing physically, but he found that a part of him, perhaps Jimmy's memories, perhaps his own unused and almost atrophied instincts, told him what to do with his mouth, with his hands. He heard a soft moan from Guin's throat as he tentatively kissed down the long curve of her neck, the heat inside of him flaring and spreading faster along the nerve endings than he could have imagined possible.

* * *

Sam looked around the clearing for Ruane, his gaze travelling fast enough to avoid eye contact with any of other girls who were watching him from various vantage points around the wide area. He'd managed one dance with the leader's daughter, and then she'd disappeared and he'd had to dance with several others until he could stagger out of the flattened grass circle back to the table, claiming thirst and hunger as an excuse.

He watched his brother stumble slightly as he walked into the trees, his arm slung around a girl's shoulders. It was the third time he'd seen Dean come and go from the clearing, each time with a different young woman. The kraken unleashed again, he thought with a flicker of humour.

He felt a hand cover his, and turned quickly, the excuse he had ready dying in his throat as he looked into the laughter-lit silvery grey eyes beside him.

Ruane tilted her head slightly, her cheeks flushed from the wine and dancing, an invitation in the lift of her brow. Sam stood up and followed her down the dark path into the woods, the feel of her fingers curled around his, light but warm, the scent of her skin and hair flowing back to him.

When she stopped, he looked around, the tiny space between the trees just big enough for two people, the open centre covered with a thick layer of soft moss, growing over the ground and the protruding roots of the trees surrounding them. She knelt slowly beside him, her eyes on his, and he sank as well, closing his eyes when he felt her hands slip under the edge of his shirt, pushing it up as they slid up his chest. He thought cloudily of what he'd told his brother, about tonight, about the customs in general. It was all well and good, he thought, until you realised that it wasn't just sex you were looking for, it wasn't just the feel of her breasts under your hand, or the taste of her mouth or the intoxication of feeling her skin as it slid over yours … there was also the longing to be near her, to hear her opinions about this thing or that, to watch the expressions cross her face as she listened, really listened to you.

Sam felt his body clench as her fingers ran over him, and she moved her leg, lifting it over his, her arm wrapping around his neck, her mouth hungry on his, lifting herself higher, and he felt the explosion of heat and softness surrounding him as she came down again.

* * *

Dean leaned back against the table, satiated in every way, a slightly smug and deeply contented smile curving his lips as he looked around the clearing. More than half of the villagers had disappeared, into the trees and woods around, he guessed. He took a deep swallow from the cup of ale he held, his delight in finding that he wasn't going to be doomed to wine for the foreseeable future adding to the overall feeling that this night could easily be the best of his life. He couldn't see Cas or Sam, and he hoped that they were having as much fun as he was, though he had his doubts about that.

He looked up as he heard a step behind him, smiling at the healer as she came and sat next to him.

"You have been exercising carefully?" Valenis asked, almost smiling, one brow arched slightly.

"Taking my time, no sudden moves." He grinned back at her. "All good here."

She nodded, picking up a cup of spiced wine. "It is a good night, we all needed to laugh and have fun, rid ourselves of the tensions of the last few months."

His smiled faded and he looked away from her.

"How do you do it? Lose so many, and just keep going?"

He missed her expression of surprise. "What else is there to do?"

It was a good point, he thought. "I don't know. Don't you feel that it's too much, sometimes, too many good people gone?"

Valenis leaned forward slightly, looking at his profile. "Yes, that feeling is there, for all of us, I think. We do not forget, Dean. But a part of our responsibility to our beloved dead is to live, and to live fully. Not to give up. Not to let despair fill us until we want nothing more than to lie down in the earth with them."

She looked into her cup, seeing her reflection in the still dark wine. "I was married young, in my home. And I lost my husband and child." She heard his indrawn breath and looked up at him, smiling a little. "You are shocked, but it happens easily here. My mother was a healer, and hers before. I did not want to become a healer. I did not want to spend my time with study and meditation, with the sick and the old and the dying."

She looked around the clearing. "My mother and grandmother had a power, inside themselves. And they healed. I have that power too," she glanced at him, her smile a little sly now, "you would think of me as a witch now, yes?"

He shook his head. If she was a witch, she was unlike any he'd met. She worshipped no one.

"I pretended that I didn't have it. I turned my back on who I was, to become something else, something I thought I wanted to be." She sighed softly, lifting her cup again and swallowing the wine. "When they were killed, and I had buried them, I left. It took a long time, a long, long time before I started to become the person I was born to be. But I did. And I found that living, feeling love for people, getting up and trying again, these things healed me, not grief, not despair, not anger."

He was silent, and she reached out, touching his hand lightly. "It can take a long time to learn who you are meant to be. But it happens, whether you will it or not."

He nodded slightly, and looked around the clearing again. He didn't want to spoil the night with a conversation like this, not now. Valenis watched him put the thoughts aside and leaned back, sipping at her wine.

He'd looked over the people still eating and drinking twice before he realised that he hadn't seen Alis once through the night, not even earlier, before people had started disappearing.

"Where's Alis?"

Valenis looked at him. "She is at home. She was not allowed to join in here tonight."

"That's harsh, isn't it?"

"Punishment is not effective if it doesn't hurt somewhat," she said softly. "As a girl, I had the same trouble. She'll live."

He looked down into his cup. He had managed to not think about the fiery, redhaired girl the whole evening, but he hadn't wanted her to miss out on what was obviously the highlight of the year in the village either.

He looked up as a hand extended itself into his field of vision. Kiya stood in front of him, smiling.

He put his cup down and got to his feet, nodding to Valenis as he took the girl's hand and followed her out of the clearing. She led him down the twisting dark path to a space between the trees, and turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and lifting her mouth to his. He kissed her, feeling desire spark slowly again as his hands explored her body, feeling her answering arousal in the hardness of her nipples, the wet heat between her legs. The grass was thick and soft, and he lay over her, looking into her eyes, dark and half-closed, as he slipped into her velvet warmth. His eyelids fluttered shut at the familiar sensations, the languid ache that filled him, the steadily building vortex of pleasure that bled through his body, out to his limbs, but it wasn't a pair of dark brown eyes he saw against the blackness of his closed lids as he quickened.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

* * *

Castiel and Vasiliĭ sat on the broad stone parapet of the watch tower, watching the pale colours of dawn fill the sky against the rim of the enclosing mountains. Both men had shadows under their eyes, the previous evening's festivities, activity and lack of sleep having taken its toll. The air was still and cold and they shared the last few glasses of mead from the stone jug that Vasiliĭ had brought with him.

"What do you know of a mage or sorcerer, in the north, Vasiliĭ?" Castiel turned to the man.

Vasiliĭ bowed his head for a moment, then looked up at the angel. "My father told me of a mage, said he lived far to the north, where the ice and snow lie on the ground for a long time each year, and where the sun does not set in the summertime, and barely rises in the winter months."

Castiel's brows rose slightly as he thought of the latitudes where that occurred.

"My father said that this man had lived for five hundred years, when he began to poison the lands around with his magic and his spells." Vasiliĭ raised his eyes to Castiel, shrugging slightly. "I thought it was a tale, as old men tell them around the winter fire, to scare the young. Five hundred years … it is impossible."

"And then you learned of the Qaddiysh?" Castiel's eyes narrowed as he watched the leader's face.

"Yes." He exhaled noisily and rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. "And I wondered."

"The tale was that this mage had made a pact with the Lord of the Underworld, to do his work in the world of men, and for that he would live forever. The region is very harsh, not many people live there, in such hardship, but those who were born there are used to it, and do not leave. At first, people began to disappear." He closed his eyes, brows drawing together as he tried to remember all the details of the story. "My mother was born in the taiga, far to the north, and within a hundred miles of this mage's land, and she told me before she died that it was true, that people had disappeared and never been found. That strange monsters and evil spirits roamed the night and the darkness, and took travellers, even attacked villages from time to time. She believed, Casteel."

"What happened?"

Vasiliĭ shrugged. "After a time, I suppose the villagers thought it was better to fight and die, than live in fear. They gathered together and marched on the mage's home. The whole region was covered in mists, in fog, that had not been there before, you understand? They never found it. Or maybe they did. Several years later, some people came out of the mists that had descended on the area, without their memories, without their wits. No others returned."

"No one knows if the mage was destroyed or not?"

"No one would search for the truth after what happened, my friend. My mother told me that the mage had gone to a land of fire and ice, of darkness and light. She had seen that in a still, dark pond at the end of that summer of death. It sounded like a tale. A fantastic tale for children." The big man shrugged slightly, and Castiel realised that Vasiliĭ didn't know if the tale were true or not, even now.

* * *

"Dean, get up." Sam looked at the heap of coverings over Dean's bed.

"Go away."

"Come on, Vasiliĭ and Cas are waiting for us." Sam pushed his foot against the lump he could see.

There was silence from the pile of furs. Then Kiya peered out at Sam, blinking slightly in the brightness of the morning sun reflected from the pale walls.

"Oh." Sam smiled awkwardly at the girl and turned away. "Dean, seriously, man, you have to get up."

"Yeah." His brother's voice was muffled from deep within the pile. "In a minute. I'll be right out."

Sam exhaled gustily and walked out of the room.

* * *

They walked down the broad stone steps fast, crossing the square as the rising sun touched the rooftops. Sam glanced at his brother, his mouth twisting slightly.

"You do know that having Kiya in the room is different from what happened last night, right?"

Dean's stride faltered and he looked sideways at Sam. "No. What's different?"

Sam shook his head. "Different everything. Midsummer's Eve is a special occasion, but once the sun comes up, it's all over. And the trysts are outside, not where you live."

"Huh. Well, thanks for sharing that when it's too late." He looked back at the healer's house. "So what does that mean?"

"I'm not sure, but it might mean you're not single anymore."

Sam lengthened his stride and knocked on the door, nodding to Valenis as she opened it wide to let him pass. Dean followed him slowly inside the healer's house.

Mika lay back against the pile of furs, looking at Vasiliĭ and Castiel. He raised his eyes to Sam and Dean as they walked closer. The scout was eighteen, and already his face held enough pain and suffering for a man of forty, Sam thought as he sank down near the angel.

Dean looked around the warm room. Vasiliĭ, Castiel and Valenis were seated around the bed. He couldn't see anyone else. He sat down next to Sam, struggling to focus his attention on the young man lying there.

The young scout was still pale, his hands trembled against the woven blanket that covered him. His voice was hoarse and cracked as he stumbled haltingly through his account, Vasiliĭ prompting him gently when the words trailed away.

"Going south, it was clear. We told the villages what had happened, told them how to build their defences, to get salt and iron." He looked at Dean briefly, his face twitching with some memory. "We had reached the lower peaks, when we saw the first scout party. They were about one hundred strong, all men, all archers. After that, we saw many others, and the villages told us about small parties, not attacking, not all the time, but creeping through the valleys, hiding and moving north slowly. That was when I turned back, and Denya kept going."

Castiel kept his gaze fixed on the young man's face. "Did you see any of the leaders?"

Mika nodded. "The last group, before we split up, there were maybe four or five smaller parties that had joined together, made a base camp on the eastern end of the pass. We saw a very tall man there. He – he had very long golden hair, like a woman's. He was directing the soldiers; they all came to his tent, to report in."

Dean watched Castiel lean forward, his body stilling. Vasiliĭ glanced at the angel, then turned back to Mika.

"Where did you run into the group?"

"Three hundred miles south of here. They were close by the Endless River, moving north. I do not know how they discovered me, I was never close to their encampment." He looked up at the leader, his eyes wretched. "In the night, I had a dream. I saw the leader in it. It was after the dream that they started to chase me, and I went east, not wanting them to know where I was from or where I was going. I thought I would lose them on the gravel plains, the scree spills." He dragged in a deep breath.

Dean frowned as he listened to the boy's recounting of the nightmare chase that had ensued. No matter which way Mika had turned, the demons had remained always a few hours behind him, harrying him through worse and worse terrain, tracking him somehow across rock and through water, over the mountain peaks and through the steep-sided forests, never giving him time to rest or eat, or his horse to forage. The demons had followed the scout as if he'd been marked.

"Nika fell, and I too, and the demons came on us." He looked down at his hands, thin and nicked and twisted from the battle, from the journey. He couldn't explain to them those endless moments when he'd thought he would die. Couldn't relive the soul-deep horror of seeing the demons looking out at him through the possessed men, or the things they had said to him. "I would have died there, I think, if not for the blood metal. It killed them, all of them." His eyes met Sam's, a mute gratitude in them and Sam nodded, looking down.

"I stayed on the eastern slopes until I thought I was far enough north to risking coming into the mountains again."

Vasiliĭ closed his eyes. There were no passes to the east of them. Mika must have led his horse over the peaks. Even in mid-summer, those peaks were covered in ice and snow, and the terrain was treacherous with bog and scree and rotten ice. He reached out, his huge hand lying lightly over the young man's arm.

"You did well, Mika. You must rest now, and get back your strength."

He nodded uncertainly. "Is Nika all right?"

Dean cleared his throat. "She was eating. I think she'll be all right." She might be lame from now on, he thought, but a mare could always be useful, her strength would produce good foals.

Castiel looked at Mika. "In your dream, can you remember what the man with the golden hair looked like? Can you describe him?"

Mika closed his eyes, shivering slightly. "He had very smooth skin, like a man of few years; it was very pale, almost shining. His eyes were amber, like a wolf's, and long and narrow in shape. He had a mark, a tattoo or maybe a brand, on his forearm." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. "It was … strange … like a child's drawing, just an outline. It was a tree, maybe an oak, with a big, even canopy."

Castiel nodded, and Sam saw that his face had paled. "Thank you, Mika, that is very helpful."

As the men stood up and turned away, Alis walked slowly from the shadows of the doorway to the back of the house. Dean hesitated when he saw her, but she kept her gaze on the bowl she carried, and he finally followed Sam to the door, turning his head to watch her sit next to Mika, her back to him.

* * *

"The leader Mika described," Castiel began as they sat at the table close to the fire in the hall, "is Kokabiel."

Dean glanced quizzically at Sam, who shrugged. "I'm guessing from your tone, this is relevant?"

Castiel looked at him. "Very. Kokabiel was very highly ranked in Heaven, before he chose to fall. He was the liaison with the underworld, and had in his personal command over three hundred thousand demons to do his bidding."

"Ah." Sam leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Yeah, that certainly has relevance."

Castiel's lip curled. "I'm glad you think so."

Dean looked at him. "How does that fit in with a sorcerer being in control?"

"If anyone could gain control of Kokabiel, could use him and force him to do their bidding, they could control the demons in his command. Kokabiel will be the one who has bound the demons into the Scythian armies. He will be the one who is controlling them." Castiel sighed, leaning on the table. "I spoke to Vasiliĭ about the sorcerer to the north."

"And?"

"He confirmed that there was a tale of such a man. But he had only heard the account from his father and mother. He had no corroborating sources about him."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "We're not likely to get any, you know, not in this time."

"Did he say where this sorcerer was?" Dean looked from Sam to the angel. "If we can find him?"

"He said that he was far to the north, where the sun doesn't set in the summer, and doesn't rise in the winter."

Sam nodded. "Above the Arctic circle then." He looked at the angel. "That leaves a lot of countries to cover."

"Yes."

"Cas, how could the demons follow Mika, over rock and through water?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked away. "I told you, Kokabiel was the liaison between Heaven and Hell. He was also responsible for choosing the souls that were damned. He had – has still, I suppose, a ring that marked the soul so that the demons could claim it. If he appeared in your dreams, then you would be marked and there was no escape."

Sam looked at his brother. "Do you remember how to make dreamcatchers?"

"Yeah. We need gold wire. I'll get some from Torgva." Dean shook his head, looking at Castiel. "Seriously man, you guys have too much goddamned power."

"Yes, I believe that to be the case as well," Castiel admitted uncomfortably.

Ruane came into the hall, looking around and seeing them, headed for the table.

"There is a visitor in the square, asking for you, Casteel."

The angel got up quickly and followed her to the doors. Dean and Sam exchanged a glance before standing and walking after him, through the doors and down the trail to the square.

* * *

Castiel looked at the man standing in the midst of the muddy village. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, the traveller wore a long, hooded cloak, mud-soaked and worn. He leaned on a staff of a dark wood, the top of it curiously carved into an elaborate filigree.

"Penemue. It's been a long time."

The man turned to look at the angel approaching, and lifted the edge of the hood back from his face.

"It has, Castiel. I was surprised to hear you were here." The Watcher's voice was deep, a bass voice with a rich timbre.

"I was surprised to be here, my brother." He turned slightly, gesturing to the two men who came up behind him.

"This is Dean and Sam Winchester. They … ah … have travelled with me."

The Watcher inclined his head, the sunlight gleaming on long black hair, lighting the bright blue eyes that watched them.

"And Vasiliĭ, the lord of Deep Ice village." Castiel made the introductions as the leader walked up to the much taller man.

"You are welcome in my house." Vasiliĭ said, his hand enveloping the Watcher's. "Come, eat and rest. It is a long journey you have made."

"My thanks, Lord Vasiliĭ, I am grateful for your hospitality." He glanced at Castiel as the angel turned and fell into step with him.

"What happened to you, Castiel?"

"It's a long story, better told over food and drink." The angel looked at the broad back of the village leader ahead of them, adding in a lower tone. "I have no power, Penemue, I cannot hear or touch Heaven. I am as a mortal now."

* * *

Sam looked at Penemue as the Watcher ate. Was this a vessel, he wondered, or the angel's physical form when he'd fallen? He was tall, taller slightly than himself, Sam thought. That seemed unlikely for a vessel in these times. His face was unusual, a mix of genetics that seemed to come from several races. The wide cheekbones and forehead and aquiline features appeared Caucasian, in the modern sense of the word, he clarified to himself, but the deeply tanned skin and black hair seemed more southern, Middle Eastern. The man's eyes were the bright blue of a clear desert sky. The dark winged brows and long dark lashes seemed also not to match the rest. Could angels take on a physical form when they fell? He'd have to ask Cas later.

"So you didn't see what happened to Kokabiel and the others?"

"No, I became aware that they were changed only after it happened. And I have not been able to contact the rest since. There is some kind of interference preventing clear communication between us now. I can't even hear those in Heaven."

"How is it that you could communicate with Valenis?" Castiel sipped his wine, frowning as he tried to think of anything that could prevent angels from seeing each other, speaking with one another. He wondered briefly if that was why he couldn't reach out to Heaven, rather than it being the result of his injuries, as he'd thought.

"That was through the medium of water. It is a fickle conduit, water, but when it does decide to work, it is at least clear." Penemue wiped the remaining sauce from the bowl with a hunk of bread.

"Penemue, what could have changed the line of destiny?" Castiel leaned forward across the table, staring at the Watcher. "How could that have been done?"

"There were a set of linked prophecies, Castiel. They were envisaged and written down by a man, long before the Flood." He sat back, closing his eyes. "The first was about a creature of darkness, who saw how to propitiate the Fates into changing the lines of Destiny. It required a special sacrifice, a living sacrifice. The second was a vision of three angels, bound and controlled, raising an army of the dead to scour the land in search of a man who'd been born of angel and demon."

Dean glanced at Castiel, as a deep frown pulled the angel's brows together.

"I didn't find out what the third was, exactly, only that it had to do with Lucifer, at the end of his time of punishment." Penemue opened his eyes, and looked at Castiel.

"I think Azazel found the prophecies originally. Before he was killed and Lucifer convinced God to send him to Hell. He told some of it to the others, although I'm not sure who. We found his writings, after he was … taken. He wrote that one day Lucifer would be raised, would be free to walk the Earth again in a living man."

Castiel shook his head. "That was prophesised in Revelations –" He stopped as he saw Penemue's puzzlement, abruptly remembering that Revelations was still to be prophesised, in the far future. "Something I heard about, in Heaven."

"In any case, Lucifer's time is not yet over," he added.

"That viewpoint depends on when you consider the war in Heaven was won." Penemue shrugged. "He was supposed to have been imprisoned for a thousand years, Cas, from the ending of the war."

"Yes, well the war finished when he was thrown into the Cage," Castiel said.

"Not necessarily. Think of the infighting that went on for centuries afterward." Penemue watched his brother's face. "Think of the infighting that is still going on."

The angel shook his head. "That isn't war, Penemue."

"That's semantics, Cas." He glanced at the humans sitting at the table with them. "In any case, at some point, those prophecies were told to a man."

"The mage?"

Penemue nodded. "I heard about him from Alexander, and before him, from Cyrus, in Persia. They had both tried to find him, sending parties far into the north, and failing. He was supposed to have been able to raise the dead, to create hybrids of men and beasts," the Watcher shrugged, spreading his hands, "Since he was never seen, there were all manner of tales ascribed to his powers."

"But one of the Watchers told this mage about the prophecies?"

"Yes."

"Do you know which one?"

"No. But it seems highly likely it was one of the three, and I would think that Samyaza would be the most obvious candidate. He was right on the lunatic fringe with the Lightbringer, you know."

Castiel nodded slowly. "Up until it was a choice between being cast down, and pretending otherwise."

Vasiliĭ looked from Penemue to Castiel. "How can this man still be living?"

Penemue looked at the leader. "That is indeed the question, my lord. Cyrus said that the sorcerer had made a pact with the Lord of the Underworld, Hades, to do the god's work on earth in return for eternal life."

"Yes." Castiel glanced at Vasiliĭ. "That is the tale that is told. But there is no such lord of the underworld," he added, shaking his head.

"No. But there is Lucifer, whispering through the bars of his Cage," Penemue responded dryly. "And the sorcerer has lived long beyond the span of mortal years."

* * *

Castiel slipped into the weaver's rooms once the meeting was finished, finding Guin seated at the loom, her fingers moving fast across the strings of the simple machine.

She glanced up as he walked to her, setting the yarn in place and standing up.

"You look unhappy, Casteel." She slipped her arms around his neck and the angel bowed his head slightly, his arms going around her waist, the comfort of being close to her, of feeling her support, easing the worries that had filled him since he'd left the Watcher to rest. There were benefits to living a mortal life, he thought, in friendship and the comfort of touch.

"Penemue had information for us, none of it good." He straightened, and looked down into her face. "I will have to leave, Guin. I will have to go south and speak to the other Watchers, find out what they know."

Guin felt a stab of fear in her chest. "What did Valenis say about that?"

Castiel shook his head. "I haven't told her."

He saw her eyes widen and shrugged slightly. "She will not approve, but there is no choice now. It seems that the sorcerer in the north is orchestrating these events with the intent of raising Lucifer."

"Who is Lucifer?" She searched his eyes, seeing fear in them, not understanding it.

Castiel took a deep breath as he thought of how he could explain the threat of the fallen angel without going into the whole, sorry story. "He is the King of the demons, the King of Hell."

The sound of her sharply indrawn breath was loud in the quiet room. "When will you go?"

He smiled at the question. Of all the people he would have to tell, he had known she would accept it, would not burden him with her fear and doubt, would be practical and pragmatic about the reasons for his decision. He bent his head and kissed her, feeling the heat and what he now knew to be desire rising through his body, his vessel's body, the ache that was part a longing to be close to her, to be connected to her, and part the vivid memory of the rush of pleasure of his, his vessel's, climax inside of her. Guin returned his kiss demandingly, welcoming the arousal to drown out the other emotions that crowded her throat and chest.

* * *

"So, we've got a sorcerer who's been around for maybe five or six hundred years, having made a deal with Lucifer to be his earthly agent, who has somehow found a way to derail Destiny, change the path completely, open a Gate to Hell and release thousands of demons, control three fallen angels and is doing all of this with the intention of bringing Lucifer back to Earth in the body of a man, who is supposed to have been conceived by an angel and a demon?" Sam looked at his brother. "That about cover everything?"

Dean rubbed his hand over his face, turning away to look over the valley as they leaned on the watchtower wall. His head felt as if it was going to explode. Angels and demons. Lucifer rising, no matter what time or continent they escaped to. And in this time, the demons could really run riot on the place; at home someone would call in the Army, or the Air Force, or even the fucking National Guard if they saw a private army marching somewhere.

After the meeting he'd gone back to the room, wanting some time alone to think about what they'd just heard, and the other problems. Kiya had been waiting for him, and he'd discovered that Sam's speculation about her thoughts on the matter of being attached had been right. He'd had a hard time getting her to leave, and the hurt look she'd thrown him as she'd walked from the room was still making him feel like a douche. Once she'd gone, he still hadn't been able to detangle his thoughts, and the effort and time he'd wasted on it was rankling.

"Looks like." He pushed the churning, unresolvable mess aside, concentrating on the thing that had caught his attention about the prophecies. "I would have thought that it would be impossible for a demon and an angel to get it on?"

"Yeah, well, maybe not." Sam turned around, leaning against the wall. "We still don't have enough information, you know."

"Yeah, I figured that."

"I think Cas is going to want to talk to the other Watchers," Sam said, glancing sideways at Dean.

"In … Palestine? Or Jordan? Or wherever they are? That's a long walk."

"Yeah." Sam nodded, thinking of the distance, and of the terrain. "About two thousand miles, given the route."

"That's going to take months."

"Yeah." Sam turned back, looking at Dean's profile. "And one of us is going to have to go with him. We can't afford to let anything happen to him, not if we want a ride home."

Dean looked down at the rough stones that made up the parapet of the tower. He nodded slowly. "I know."


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

* * *

Sam hurried down the track to the fields, glancing up at the height of the sun over the ridge to the west. He had about an hour before he had to get back for evening training. He saw Elbek down near the river, washing in the shallow rapids with Alis, Rascha, Lyre and a few of the other hunters, and lengthened his stride.

"Sam, what news from Casteel's guest?" Lyre called out to him, stepping out of the shallow water, and reaching for her shirt.

"None of it good." Sam slowed down as he reached them, making a face that was universally understood. "There are two armies marching this way from the north and the south. We might get squashed between them."

Alis looked up slowly, exchanging a glance with Lyre.

"Can I talk with you, Elbek?" He looked at the dark haired hunter. Elbek nodded, walking out of the river and pulling his clothing over his damp skin. He shook back wet hair as he buckled his belt, and collected his bow and quiver.

"I'll see you tonight." The hunter turned and called to the others.

Sam walked up the track with Elbek slowly. "I need to know about something, that, uh, happened after midsummer's eve."

Elbek's mouth widened into a slow smile. "I heard about you and Ruane, my sister hasn't stopped talking about the fact that you didn't spread your favours around."

Sam shook his head. "Ah, yeah, well … actually it's about Dean."

"Ah, yes? He was much more diplomatic with the girls."

"Yeah." Sam stifled a snort. "After sunrise, if you take a girl from the woods to your home, is there any … meaning to that? For the girl, I mean?"

Elbek stopped, brows rising as he looked at him. "Of course there is. What happens between dusk and dawn is an offering to the goddess. After dawn, to take a woman to your home, well, that's a … a promise."

Sam felt his heart sink slightly. "What kind of promise?"

Elbek shrugged. "A handfasting promise. That you will be together for at least a turn of the seasons, live together."

"As in an engagement?" Sam's eyes widened slightly. "A promise to marry?"

"Well, if both parties are not happy by the end of the year, then it can be dissolved, but yes, I suppose it would be a promise to marry. You wouldn't invite a girl to share your home unless you were pretty sure you wanted to marry her."

"That's just great." Sam ran his hand sharply through his hair as he started walking again.

"Dean asked one of the girls to his home?"

"Kiya." Sam looked down at the ground. "He didn't know, about the custom."

Elbek nodded, clearing his throat. "Kiya is a fine woman, she will make a good wife. And mother. And she's a healer, nearly as talented as Valenis, I've heard."

Sam looked at the hunter sharply. "I thought you were pretty keen on Alis?"

Elbek looked over his shoulder, back down to the river. "Alis is like a fire. She is beautiful and dangerous and burns hot, but she is not who I would ask to share my hearth." He looked back at Sam, with a faint shrug. "She was nearly married two years ago, a man from a village to the west, near the sea. He took the marriage gift, and left in the night and I think he stole her heart at the same time. She has not had much interest in loving anyone since then."

Sam looked down to the river, watching the red-haired girl standing a little further from the others.

"Now, Kiya, she is sweet and gentle, and knows how to make a man feel cared for." Elbek looked down, and Sam looked back at him, catching the faint wistfulness in his voice.

"Why haven't you asked her before now?" he asked the other man curiously.

Elbek looked up at him with a rueful smile. "I did not realise that I thought about her like that until she went with your brother on midsummer's eve and did not come back."

"Uh huh." Sam nodded in understanding. It was a fairly universal trait to not know what you want until you could no longer have it, no matter when or where.

* * *

Despite the number of people in the large square room, it was silent after Castiel's announcement, the only sound the crackling of the wood burning on the hearth.

"No, you cannot go, Castiel, you are not fit enough to make a journey like that." Valenis' voice was uncharacteristically loud as she stared at the angel.

Guin stood beside Castiel, her fingers laced with his, looking at the healer. "Valenis, it is not your decision to make."

Valenis scowled briefly at her friend. "And you, you should be telling him that he is not fit to go."

"It is not my decision to make either." Guin shrugged. "We are in times of peril, and each must do as they can, not what you or I would have them do."

"Then I will go with you." Valenis looked at Castiel. "I have travelled that way before, and I can at least ensure that you do not over exert yourself."

"No." Vasiliĭ stepped forward, shaking his head. "No, you may send another healer, Ruane or Kiya, but you will not make this journey, Valenis. War is upon us, and you are needed here."

For a moment, it seemed that the healer would argue with the leader, but she dropped her gaze and nodded reluctantly.

Vasiliĭ turned to the angel. "You will need protection."

"I'll be going with him," Sam spoke softly, glancing sideways at his brother as he did. Dean hadn't been happy about it, but he couldn't argue against it. Sam knew more about the customs of the lands they would be travelling through. And Dean was needed at Deep Ice, two armies approaching, and his sense of responsibility to the people here, their friends, already too strong to abandon them.

"Rascha will go as well. He knows the country beyond the mountains." Vasiliĭ nodded. "You will need horses but we cannot spare enough for remounts. It will slow you down, but perhaps make it easier to avoid the Scythians that come through the passes to the south."

Castiel inclined his head. "Thank you, Vasiliĭ."

"When do you leave, my friend?"

"In two days', I think." Castiel glanced at Penemue. "It will take us nearly three months to reach the desert. We might have a chance to get back before the armies reach you."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "It will take them longer to bring their armies through the mountains."

* * *

"Ruane, this is going to be a dangerous journey." Sam looked at her stiff shoulders, the shadows cast by the soft glow of the oil lamps making the tension obvious.

"Valenis has only two apprentices, Sam. And Kiya is now handfasted to your brother. Valenis will not make her leave him." She turned to him, looking up into his face. "And I would go with you."

Sam chewed at the corner of his lip. She was right. There was no one else. She wasn't a hunter, but like all the people in the village, in this time and this life, she was familiar with the bow and sword, she could hunt and protect herself. And Dean's unthinking action of midsummer eve had backfired on him in the worst way possible way. Sam had been surprised at the philosophical way his brother had taken the news. It had only been later, thinking about the situation he was leaving, that he'd realised that Dean didn't think he'd still be alive in a year.

Sam looked around the room. It had been changed subtly in the last two days, his few belongings and Cas' were packed in the hide saddle bags, and Kiya had already brought her possessions here, the spinning wheel that every woman in the village seemed to have, combs carved from wood and bone laid out, bright blankets that contrasted sharply with the dark-coloured furs spread over the bed, now made large enough for two.

Ruane had spread out the pots and jars and bags of medicines that she and Valenis had deemed necessary for the trip, and was packing them methodically into her saddle bag. He looked again at the small packets of dried herbs, wrapped tightly in their near-translucent wrappings, that looked so much like plastic, but were, in fact the stomach linings of rabbit and vole and sheep.

Instead of her usual soft-woven dresses, Ruane wore the close-fitting hide trousers and vest that were the preferred dress of Alis and Lyre. Under the vest, she wore a homespun shirt, her feet in boots, laced tightly around her calves. A sword hung to one side of the double-wrapped belt, a long, slender blood metal knife on the other, both lying flat against her body. A second, smaller black bladed knife was tucked into a sheath sewn into her boot.

Sam looked at her, a part of him sorry to see the gently-spoken woman dressed like a warrior. He'd always been partial to girls who needed his protection, who looked to him for strength. He shook off the thought impatiently. They were embarking on a trip that would cover thousands of miles through hostile and strange territory, most of which they would have to avoid other people, and live off the land as they went. Making sure they all made it through would be enough of a burden without adding to it.

* * *

Dean walked out of the keep and down through the gates, turning south and following the road past the barns and storehouses that were used through the summer months, past the stand of trees that sheltered the buildings and village from the east winds, and down to the river.

He had spoken to Vasiliĭ and to Valenis about Kiya, and both had agreed that, not knowing the custom, he was not bound by it. He didn't know whether to take that out clause or not. The apprentice healer was easy to be with, undemanding and … refreshingly deferential. An uneasy memory rose at the thought, a world that had been a secret wish and a girl he hadn't known, who'd been the same way.

He pushed the memory aside. Sam was going through the fire, and probably into the frying pan. Without him. This wasn't going to be like shaking two ends of a single case to see what they came up with. His brother would be gone for a long time, and might not come back. Even if he made it back, things had changed since they'd been here, subtle things. He knew Sam was more than halfway to being in love with Ruane, recognising the restlessness in him even before midsummer, had seen the way his little brother followed the young woman around with his eyes. And for himself … what had he found? Perhaps the only home that he could feel a sense of peace in? Belonging? He wasn't sure.

He knew he couldn't leave them to it, though, couldn't ride out with his friend and brother, as if the village and the people meant nothing to him. He couldn't not think of them here, demon-possessed armies marching steadily toward them, not think that he was leaving them without the knowledge that he had, years of fighting hellspawn, trying to protect the innocent, save people.

So he thought he would stay with Kiya, and see where it ended up. He looked at the river, the clean snow-melt from the high peaks dancing and tumbling over the rocks in the wide shallow river bed, reeds and water grasses thick along the shores. Another thought struck him as he watched the water moodily.

It was the first time he'd been regularly with people other than his brother since Sam had gone to Stanford, maybe even before then. He remembered going to Jim's, with his father and Sam, the four of them sitting around the old card table in Jim's closed-in porch beside the kitchen, playing poker, talking … those were the memories that had kept him fighting to keep his father and his brother from blowing their family to pieces, those were the memories that he'd clung to when he'd gone to the college to find Sam, hoping that somewhere in his little brother's heart, they existed, were strong enough to bring him back.

He closed his eyes, letting his breath out. They hadn't been, of course. But this place … hunting, training, talking, laughing … in this place he could have that again, that security, that camaraderie, that … family. He was surprising himself, a little, with the way that idea felt.

He looked up, hearing the rustle through the long grasses closer to the river. Alis stumbled out from behind the thick grove of poplars that screened the bend, her arm loosely around Lev's neck, both laughing. The fair hunter caught sight of Dean.

"Oops. Come on, sweetheart, we'll find somewhere else." He turned them both with some difficulty, and headed back into the trees.

Dean looked back at the river for a few more minutes, then turned away, heading back up to the village.

* * *

Castiel mounted the dun gelding as if he'd been riding all his life, Sam thought with only the slightest trace of envy. He was too tall for the steppe horses, his feet close to their knees and it didn't seem to matter that he'd been riding every day since they'd stolen the damned animals from the Scythians in the attack on Black Valley, his body protested with the same vigour every time he dismounted. He was keeping his balance better though.

Ruane sat quietly in the saddle, her brown mare half-dozing in the lamplight as Penemue slid his staff through the loops of his saddle and nodded to Castiel. Rascha mounted his horse and turned toward the gates.

Sam glanced back at the small group who stood in the shadows of the keep, watching them go. Vasiliĭ's face was shuttered, a comment on their likelihood of success, or the pain of watching his daughter ride away from him, Sam couldn't tell. Valenis' face was calm but her tension showed in her stance, her arms wrapped around her. Beside her, Dean lifted a hand, his arm around Kiya, who shivered next to him. Sam couldn't see the details of his brother's face, but knew what he was feeling anyway. Maybe they were growing up, growing apart finally. They both had their jobs to do, and he hoped that Dean's would be easier than his.

He nudged his mare with his knees, and she ambled along a little faster, catching up with Ruane's horse as they headed south down the wagon track.

He'd been surprised that Dean hadn't taken the chance to dissolve his implicit promise to Kiya, given the opportunity by both Valenis and Vasiliĭ. Dean hadn't explained it, shrugging and changing the topic to something else. Sam's sense of things unsaid, acutely honed with their years of keeping things from each other, told him that it wasn't as simple as his brother wanting the comfort of a woman in his bed at night, nor that he'd developed feelings for the young healer. He gave up on the speculation, maybe by the time they returned, it would be clearer.

By their best estimates, the logistics of travelling through the mountains with so many men meant the armies would take a while to reach the village, months at least, possibly not before the first winter snows. And along the narrow glacial valleys, it would be easy to stage ambushes, to set traps and blockades. He'd left the recipe for making black powder with both his brother and Torgva, and sent a messenger to Black Valley with another for Kirill. It was relatively easy to manufacture, if they could find nitre rich caves in the area, and an easy supply of sulphur which shouldn't be too hard with Mt Elbrus only a short distance to the north of the village. It would be an effective defence, Dean had already been discussing bomb and mine making with Vasiliĭ before he'd left.

Each delay would help. The villages within a hundred miles of Deep Ice had been warned, were prepared, as much as they could be. Sam let out his breath. His road would have enough problems without him worrying about what was happening behind them. He squeezed his legs harder against his mount, and drew even with Ruane, catching the flash of white in the darkness as she smiled at him.

They had descended through the lower ranges, following the rivers for the most part, avoiding the trading road south and travelling the higher, less frequented trails used for moving stock through the alpine pastures, the hunting tracks through the forests. The summer days were long, light lingering in the sky until late, giving them more time to ride, to hunt for their food. Castiel had told them when they'd crossed from Russia into Georgia, heading a little more westward, closer to the Black Sea where the temperatures in the lower altitudes were milder and the fields and forests were filled with game and wild food, letting them keep their dried stores almost intact.

* * *

Sam stretched out in the pre-dawn light, careful not to wake Ruane, who slept against his side. He looked around the small clearing, at the lumps on the other side of the fire that were Castiel and Rascha and Penemue. He stood and walked to the trees, passing in between the straight, tall trunks to where the ground dropped away to the west and he could see the long swathe of the forest canopy and beyond that the darkness of the sea.

In any other circumstances, he thought he'd be enjoying this. The land was different from home, older, wilder and yet more settled, the weight of thousands of years of occupation not felt yet, but suggested in the markers that lined the trails they rode along, stone or carved into the tree trunks, the small villages and towns they bypassed, surrounded by neatly kept fields, cultivated orchards, human endeavours that had already moved a long way beyond hunter-gatherer.

They were making good time, keeping to the western slopes, covering forty to fifty miles per day, with frequent stops and rest and foraging time for the horses, doing a lot of walking and leading themselves. For now, the roads were good, the terrain easy, food was plentiful. He wondered how much that would change when they crossed into Turkey. The mountain range dividing the two countries was high, the Pontides held snow on their peaks all year round, like the upper Caucasus, and Penemue had already warned them that the way was harder, the mountains younger, sharper, steeper.

Beyond those mountains they would be descending to the fertile plains fed by the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, into Syria. And then through the semi-arid plains and deserts to Jordan.

He sighed and turned back to the camp. They hadn't yet seen any sign of the army of Kokabiel. He hoped they would be able to avoid them entirely, keeping the mountains between them. It was probably a false hope. Thirty thousand men, Penemue had said. More than enough to infiltrate the length and breadth of the Caucasus looking for whatever it was they were looking for.

In the clearing, Castiel was crouched next to the fire, the small iron pot of water and Valenis' tea hanging over the rekindled flames. The angel looked up as Sam walked over to him.

"How can a man be born of an angel and a demon, Cas?"

It was the thing that had bothered him the most about the prophecies.

Castiel shook his head. "It is impossible. But prophecies are often not literal, Sam. Perhaps it has some other meaning that we cannot yet fathom."

"Perhaps." Sam thought that the rest of the prophecy had seemed pretty literal.

They packed up as the sky filled with light, mounting and riding down and across the slopes, following a game trail through the thick oak and maple forest, the sunshine slanting over them from the left, always the left in the mornings as they went south.

* * *

Dean woke suddenly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He heard Kiya's soft murmur of protest as he sat up, and looked down at her, the grey light of dawn outlining the sweep of dark hair, the pale curve of her shoulder as she rolled away from him. He slid out from under the coverings, going to the bowl that sat on the other side of the room, splashing cold water over his face. His fingers brushed along the stubble that covered his jaw and throat. He hadn't been able to duplicate the close shave Alis had given him, and had resorted to using the technique Elbek had shown him, dry scraping with the edge of the knife, which served only to keep the stubble short and constantly rough.

He looked in the polished disk of metal that leaned against the wall behind the bowl and served as a mirror. The shallow copper disk didn't distort the reflected image too much, although he still wasn't used to seeing himself with the reddened skin tones that the colour of the metal tinted everything.

It hadn't been a nightmare, he thought. He hadn't had nightmares, not real ones, like those that had dogged his sleep constantly after Hell, since they'd come to this time. It had just been a feeling, a feeling of urgency, of something he had to do, or learn, or understand. He shook his head slightly. The only problem was he had no idea what it meant.

"Dean?"

He turned around and looked at Kiya. "Hey, sorry I didn't mean to wake you."

"Come here."

He walked back to the bed, kneeling beside her as she lifted her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

"Do you have to go so early?" She drew the covers aside, and smiled invitingly up at him.

He looked down at her smooth, creamy skin, sighing inwardly as she lifted his hand and laid it over her breast. She was lovely, and warm, and easy to be with. The muscles of his back were strong and supple again, thanks to her ministrations. And the nights when he came back to their room, not bone-tired and wanting nothing more than sleep, were enjoyable, maybe not earth-moving, but definitely enjoyable.

He didn't know why that felt like it wasn't … quite … enough.

"I really do, Kiya." He drew his hand back gently. "I have to meet Vasiliĭ this morning, go looking for sulphur."

He watched her mouth curve into a moue of disappointment and stood up, looking around for his clothing. "I'll see you tonight."

He dressed quickly, pretending that he didn't hear the rustle and whisper of the furs being pulled back sharply, and walked out of the room, buckling his belt as he closed the door behind him.


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

* * *

Dean followed Vasiliĭ up the steep side of the ridge, looking at the sharp, black rock they climbed over. Lava flow, he thought. A little higher, closer to the old site of the eruption and they'd find what they needed.

Below them, down the slopes of the mountains and beyond, he could see the range twisting and turning, always to the south east, peak after peak. The narrow valleys and gorges and ravines, once cut by ice and water, were clearly visible from their height, and from this vantage point, he could suddenly see how easy it would be to isolate their valley, block the entrance and exit points, at least to horses, if not to men.

"Here. The yellow powder?" Vasiliĭ's voice was sharp and clear in the thin air.

Dean came up past him, looking down at the residues left behind along the edges of the lava flow. Sulphur, barely in need of milling, he thought. He pulled out the tightly woven sacks Guin had given him, and began to pack it in, careful to touch only the dry powder, leaving the deposits that were moist alone. Sulphuric acid was no more fun to play with than hydrochloric acid, and he'd had enough of acids in general.

"So to this we add charcoal and … nitre?" Vasiliĭ's tongue crept around the unfamiliar word tentatively.

"Saltpetre, really. Potassium nitrate." Dean handed the leader a full bag and started filling the next. "The easiest source to find will be guano, bird or bat droppings, preferably from big colonies."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "There is a valley, a few miles west of home, where the rocks and trees are covered in droppings."

"Good. Once we get that, we can make a solution, filter it through ash and let it dry, and hey presto, instant potassium nitrate."

"And these things will make a … bomb." Another unfamiliar word.

"Yeah, a really big bang that can blow up rocks, create avalanches …," Dean shook his head slightly. There were too many unfamiliar concepts to get this across in an explanation. "When we've made a little, I'll show you."

He looked up at Vasiliĭ for a moment, pausing with the bag half-full. "What we really need is information, Vasiliĭ. We need to know the roads that the army will attempt to come through, perhaps fifty miles from the villages, so that we can close them if we have to."

The big man straightened up, looking over the intricate labyrinth of valleys and ridges below them. "Yes, there are only a few roads through the mountains. We can cover them, join up with the other villages."

Dean nodded, filling the final bag and standing up. "If we can make them come on foot, it'll be a different ballgame altogether."

"Ballgame?"

"Uh … situation." Dean shrugged, and looked down the slope they'd come up. "We've got enough sulphur to get started."

* * *

Sam looked up at the craggy peaks confronting them, and shook his head. "You've got be kidding."

Penemue smiled. "We will follow the river to the pass."

Even following the river, as it cut through the rock, deep and fast and filled with white water, or shallowed and beginning to loop lazily where the foothills became more gentle and the plain spread out, the road was challenging. Penemue led them through ancient forests, over steppe-like high plains, climbing the narrow goat-trails that didn't seem have to room for the horses, although the hardy animals clung to the narrow trails with a phlegmatic resignation.

The pass, when they reached it three days later, was little more than another goat-trail, floored with gravel scree and cutting through a narrow defile between the peaks, in deep shadow until midday, when they felt the sunshine on their backs for a little under an hour, then cold shadow again as it disappeared behind the ridges.

"This is the last pass, Sam. On the other side, I will leave you, and you will see the plains."

Castiel looked away. He'd been arguing with the Watcher for a week now about coming with them.

"_As things stand now, Castiel, I am considered neutral by all. If I come with you, I will have chosen a side and then the information from those who consider themselves opposing that side will dry up. I can be of more use to everyone if I do not come."_

The logic was inarguable, Castiel thought bitterly. He was taking three humans into the Watchers' stronghold. And he was powerless, as powerless as those he protected. That was something he would just have to hide from his brothers, and hope that they didn't discover the lie.

At the bottom of the pass, another, narrower road led off to the west, and Penemue drew up his horse at the junction.

"I will watch you, in the water, and let Valenis know how you fare."

Castiel nodded. "You will know if we have failed, Penemue, when the demons come knocking on your door."

The Watcher smiled. "Your optimism is hard to bear, Castiel."

* * *

They camped at the southern end of the pass, by a small lake whose stillness reflected the peaks behind them, the forest around them.

"What were the women like, in your time, your land?" Ruane looked curiously at him, as she skinned and dressed the fat rabbit carcass they would be eating for their dinner.

Sam leaned back against the hard tree trunk, running his hand through his hair, buying time to think about his answer. He'd told her the truth about himself after they'd spent the night together in the woods. He'd found that he couldn't not tell her, there were too many holes in their story, too much of his life he couldn't share if she didn't know the truth, and it was important that she knew, he wanted her to know. For a long moment, her response had been silence, and he'd wondered if it had been too much, belatedly remembering that her upbringing didn't include technology, space travel or television, let alone time travel and angels.

But he'd misjudged the strength of her. And she'd already known that Cas was an angel. Valenis had told her.

"Mostly like the women now, I guess." He thought of the women he'd met, had been involved with, who'd died. They weren't a good representation of the females of 2010 really. Jess … Jess had been strong, and brave, and kind and … he pushed the thoughts of her away again, burying them.

"Do they hunt, like Alis and Lyre?" Ruane rinsed the rabbit and pushed the stripped green wood stick through it, setting it over the low flames and baking coals of their small fire. "Do they sew and weave, heal and tend the fields?"

Sam's smile was involuntary. "Some do, I guess. But many women live in cities, and they do other things …" his brain balked at attempting to explain computers or surgery or anything at all about the legal profession to her. "The world is very different, most of the agriculture is done by machines, uh, very few people hunt for their food, or keep animals just for their own needs." Even factory farming was too far a reach, he thought. "The population of the world has grown a lot since this time, and uh, most people work at a job or a trade, to pay for food and lodging and clothing."

Ruane heard the hitches and hesitations in his answer, frowning slightly. "What kinds of jobs?"

"All kinds … teaching, uh there are factories that make things, and um, people who are artists, who play music or paint or dance for a living." He stopped again, thinking of all the jobs that didn't actually produce anything, but kept the economy rolling, stored information – how could he explain the stock market? Or data mining? Or movies or arms dealers, drug lords, online shopping, take away food joints …

"Are there jobs that I could do?"

He looked at her, confused. "Sure, yeah, I guess so. Why?"

She looked at him, her head tilted a little to one side. "Because you want to go back there, don't you? To your own time? Your own land?"

He frowned. "If Cas recovers, gets his angel powers back, yeah."

"Well, I would need to be able to do something useful there," she said, matter of factly, scraping the flesh and fatty remains from the rabbit skin as she looked at him.

"Uh …"

Sam saw the thought occur to her at the same time it clanged into his own mind.

"You would take me with you … wouldn't you, Sam?"

"Of course," he replied straight away but the newness of that idea must have shown in his face, because she turned, getting to her feet and carrying the skin down to the lake's edge, sitting down there with her back to him.

He'd never even thought of it. It was distant, it seemed distant, that Cas would recover sufficiently to get them home again. He thought of their friends, fewer and fewer now, but still Bobby would be worried about them. And Dean would want to return, want his own time, his own life back. Which left him no choice at all.

He got to his feet, walking slowly to the water's edge. He crouched beside Ruane, and looked at her, seeing the tension in her shoulders, her lips pressed tightly together against an emotion she refused to show.

"Ruane, it doesn't matter if we stay or go. We will be together."

She turned her head to look at him, and her eyes were shimmering. "Sam, be careful of what you promise, unless you are sure you can keep it."

"I am sure."

* * *

Dean looked down into the valley and felt the laugh bubbling up. Elbek stood beside him, his face puzzled at the laughter, looking down at the white valley bottom, then back to Dean.

"You wanted bird droppings, didn't you?"

"Oh yeah. This'll do just fine." He grinned at the hunter and started down the twisting trail, pulling out the sacks from under his belt. "As much as we can carry, Elbek. We'll have to bring the horses next time."

Seventy five percent saltpetre, he thought to himself, scraping the guano from the stones, the tree branches, the shrubs and ground. Sam had told him about making potassium nitrate, using urine and manure, of which they had plenty, but the curing time was eight to ten months. He would see if they could get it going, for later, but this would enable them to produce enough black powder to knock out the roads, he thought.

They gathered nearly eighty pounds between them, tying the bags to long branches, and carrying the branches over their shoulders as they hiked back over the ridges to Deep Ice. The bags weighed heavily by the time they came through the gates, and dropped their load in the cleared and dry shed that he'd commandeered for this project. The bags of sulphur wouldn't take long to grind down. He had to remember to keep the three ingredients far apart from each other, until it was time to load the casings.

They walked down to the river, pulling off their boots and weapons and falling into the water. It wasn't a relaxing bath, the water wasn't deep but even now, in mid-July, it was bone-chillingly cold. But it did the job, washing the dried nitrate dust from their skin and hair and clothing. The air was warm at least, Dean thought, walking out of the water and dripping on the smoothed stones that edged much of the river course.

He could hear the villagers in the hall, loud with music and talk and laughter as he passed it, and hurried to his room. He needed to talk to Vasiliĭ about finding alder for the charcoal.

Kiya looked around as he came in the door, smiling at him.

"I thought you'd be in the hall," he said, pulling off his wet clothes and looking around for dry ones.

"I was waiting until you returned." She looked down at the pile of wet clothing on the floor. "Do these need washing?"

Dean glanced at them and shook his head. "No, they'll be fine."

He saw the pile of clothes on the low table by the wall and started dressing.

"Did you find what you needed?" Kiya picked up the wet clothes and spread them over the table in front of the hearth to dry.

"Yep." He pulled on his boots and wrapped his sword belt around his hips, working by feel as he looked at her.

"How is Mika today?"

"He is much stronger. The nightmares are starting to fade away, I think." Kiya walked over to him, running her fingers through his damp hair, flattening the wayward spikes.

"Is Marat still eating in the hall?" He straightened up and looked down at her.

"He was last evening." Kiya looked at him curiously. "Why do you want to see the carpenter?"

"Need some advice about some wood." He grinned at her, opening the door. "Are you ready? I'm starving."

She nodded and followed him out, wondering at the crackling energy he seemed to be radiating. A new idea? Or just some good fortune, she wondered.

He walked into the hall as the group of young hunters by the fire erupted into laughter, drawing not only his gaze, but those of half of the villagers in the hall. Dean watched as Lev lifted Alis over his head, laughing up into her face. She was wearing a long dress, fitted in the bodice and flowing out from the hips, where a simple belt of copper discs flashed against the pale amethyst of the cloth. Her hair was unbound, falling in a long, deep red curtain over her shoulders, hiding her expression.

He looked away, waiting for Kiya at the doorway, sliding his arm around her shoulders as they crossed together to the end of the hall. Vasiliĭ raised his cup to Dean as he saw him. Dean walked around the table, taking his seat next to the leader's, looking over the platters and bowls of food in front of him, and loading his plate.

"How were the bird droppings?" Vasiliĭ looked at him, one brow raised.

"Very suitable." Dean looked around the tables at the hall. "Is Marat here? We'll need alder for the charcoal."

"Alder? The river banks are thick with alder."

Dean stopped chewing for a moment, then nodded. "Good. We can make the charcoal tomorrow then."

He thought of the casings and looked around for Torgva. "We'll need something for the casings, either a thick clay, or thin sheet metal."

"What is the casing?"

"What we put the powder into, it contains the initial explosion and increases the power." Dean caught the man's expression and shook his head. "You'll see the results soon if we can get enough charcoal tomorrow."

They didn't really need shrapnel, he decided. Not for shutting off a road. He could seed the ground around the village with buried mines, more of the guano in solution would make good fuses, with a fairly predictable burn rate, but if the demons got that close, they were going to have to rely on their defences anyway and he wanted to keep destruction as far from the valley as possible.

The music started again, and several people cleared the tables from the centre of the hall, moving them back to the edges. He looked up as Alis skipped into the cleared space, turning once gracefully as she waited for Lev to catch up. The fair-haired hunter caught her hand and wrapped his arms around her, releasing her a second later as the music dictated the dance to the dancers. He glanced around the hall, seeing that he wasn't the only one who was watching the red-haired woman.

"Alis looks happier with Lev," Kiya said quietly beside him. He turned to her, feeling his brows rise.

"Happier than what?"

"Than she did with Elbek." Kiya looked at him, hearing the sharpness in his voice.

In the periphery of his vision he saw the dancers stop, and felt a pair of pale green eyes on him. He leaned forward and kissed Kiya lightly, not sure what he was doing, but seeing the young healer's surprise and a trace of relief in the dark brown eyes.

"I didn't think Elbek was that stupid," he remarked, turning his head back to the dancers, in time to see Alis turn away, tipping back her head as Lev brushed his lips against her neck.

"Torgva is there, Dean, if you want to see him now about these … casings?" Vasiliĭ pointed past the dancers to the table by the fire. Valenis and Torgva had finished their meal and were talking together.

Dean nodded, dragging his thoughts back to the explosives. He wanted to get this going.

He turned back to Kiya. "I'm going to speak to Torgva."

She looked down at her plate for a moment, then nodded. He hesitated, looking down at her face, then gestured to the dancers.

"Elbek is probably dying for a dance, you should give him the chance."

She smiled at him. "Yes, perhaps I will."

He got up and followed Vasiliĭ over to the blacksmith's table, and Kiya finished her wine, slipping from the table and making her way to where Elbek sat with his back to the centre of the hall.

* * *

"I wondered when you would have a new demand for me." Torgva gave Dean a wry smile as they sat down.

"Hate to see you without any work to do, since Sam isn't around to keep prodding you." Dean retorted lightly. "I need thin sheet metal, any kind will do but something that won't rust in the rain would be nice."

"How thin do the sheets need to be?" The smith leaned forward across the table, his eyes narrowed as he listened to Dean's explanation of what was required for the casings.

Valenis sat quietly, watching and listening to them. She had news for Dean of Castiel and his brother, and for Vasiliĭ of Ruane, but she would let them get their business out of the way first. She watched her daughter discreetly as well, seeing her wide smiles and abundant energy disguising what the girl was feeling, so well that she doubted that anyone else saw.

The dress was, at least, a success, she thought. Guin had made it as a names day gift, the colour was an experimental dye using a tin mordant this time, the fabric more tightly woven on the new loom than she'd tried before. Alis looked beautiful in it, Valenis had to admit. It wasn't often her daughter could be persuaded to put on a dress instead of the warrior's attire she preferred. Perhaps she would more often now.

She turned back to the men's conversation as she heard the cold note in Vasiliĭ's voice.

"No. No, Dean. No one goes out alone anymore. Everyone goes with at least one warrior who can watch, while the job is done."

She saw the characteristic scowl cross the other man's face. "I don't need help and I don't want to take up someone's time when there is too much to do here, Vasiliĭ."

Valenis looked around as Alis sat down beside her, Lev sliding onto the bench close by, both flushed and breathless from the dancing. She raised a brow questioningly at her daughter, seeing Alis' swift glance past her and back. Alis looked blandly back at her mother and the healer sighed softly, turning away, listening to the conversation between the leader and the outlander.

"You will go with someone or not at all, Dean." The leader's voice deepened and Dean made a frustrated gesture.

"Fine. Alright." He glanced at Valenis, and his eyes flickered briefly past her, before returning to the leader.

"When do you begin the harvest?"

"In two weeks, any later and there will be storms, the seeds are almost ready now." Vasiliĭ leaned back, relieved that Dean had chosen to respect his authority. He was aware that the man was a few years younger than himself, but he'd come to rely on his knowledge and his strength in the last few months, and he'd seen the streak of deep responsibility toward those under his protection that matched his own.

"I'll make sure I'm back before then."

"Good. We will need everyone for that." Vasiliĭ looked from Dean to Valenis. "We will have a good winter store this year."

She nodded, not saying what everyone at the table was thinking. If they were not attacked, if they did not have to abandon their crops and pastures. There was no point to saying it out loud.

Dean turned as Kiya's hand rested on his shoulder. He stood up, looking at Vasiliĭ.

"I'll be ready day after tomorrow. If we can take horses, it should only take three or four days to check both ways."

Vasiliĭ stood as well. "Yes, we will not need the horses until after the harvest. Once it is in, we can take the … bombs … and set them in place."

"Dean, I have news of Castiel and Sam," Valenis looked up at him, "Penemue said that they have crossed the mountains safely and have reached the high desert." She glanced at Vasiliĭ, seeing him close his eyes in relief.

"That's good, they're moving pretty fast. Did they see the army or advance scouts?"

"No, the western side of the mountains was completely undisturbed, no sign that any had made it that far."

Dean frowned, looking away absently as he wondered why; surely if the demons were looking to subdue the population they wouldn't leave any part of the mountains untouched?

Valenis watched his face curiously, seeing his eyes regain their focus then narrow as her daughter and Lev left the table, his face harden suddenly. She looked behind her, and saw the couple embracing in the shadows of the doorway. He turned away as she looked back to him, taking Kiya's hand and walking out of the hall as the music began again.

* * *

The fire burned low, the flames jumping and flickering, the air in the room warm and dry, but a fitful breeze from the south trickling through the thin slit windows from time to time. Kiya arched her back, her breath fast and shallow, her skin gilded and shadowed by the firelight. Dean lifted his head, feeling the droplets of sweat falling from his hair as he crossed the line where his control left him, and the long, slow building of sensation became a wild escalation of pleasure through nerve and muscle, shuddering through him, and leaving him empty.

* * *

Sam looked around the crowded square, filled with people of every description, of every race, colour and dress, and felt Ruane's hand slide into his. He tightened his fingers around hers, glancing down reassuringly at her. The cacophony of the different languages filled the air, not quite blending together, a disharmonious yet intensely alive sound that was unlike anything he'd heard before.

To every side, the mud-brick and stone buildings rose, brightly coloured cloth tented out on poles to provide shade to the fronts of the buildings and for the simple stands set up along the walls and around the well, where traders sold their produce loudly, competing fiercely with each other for the attention of the crowds that flowed past.

It was already hot, even here in the northern foothills, the sunlight mercilessly bright and hard, reflecting from the pale soils, the calcareous stone. Sam could feel sweat trickling down his neck and back, and wondered what the temperature would be like in a month's time.

Rascha moved ahead of them, Castiel following closely, the dark haired hunter stopping here and there at the stalls, haggling ferociously with the vendors for the fresh and dried food they needed. Sam stopped as the angel turned in front of him, holding out a handful of what appeared to be large, squashed insects. Cockroaches, Sam thought, wrinkling his nose as he peered down at them.

"Eat. They're dates, very nutritious." Castiel pushed the handful closer to Sam.

"They look like cockroaches." Sam glanced at Ruane who was viewing the fruit with equal suspicion.

"They're not. They're fruit. They're good." Castiel took one from the handful and put it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing.

Sam reached out tentatively and picked a date from the pile, smelling it first. The dates had been picked fresh, but much of their moisture had evaporated, leaving the fleshy fruit slightly deflated looking, but more dense. He took a bite and looked up at Castiel, nodding slightly. They were good, rich and sweet. He picked another from the pile, and smiled at Ruane as she took one for herself.

"They keep well." The angel turned away and followed the hunter, talking over his shoulder. "This will be the last town we stop at. We will follow the mountains on their eastern slopes, away from the populations. We need supplies and animals."

* * *

By evening, Rascha had acquired what they needed. Sam looked at the camels, cushed down in the warm sand at the edge of the town, their large eyes expressing both superiority and boredom in equal parts as they chewed their cud slowly. Bags of food, fresh and dried, lay in a heap not far from them, along with rolled cloth, of a heavy yarn and tightly woven that would make simple shelters for them. Their horses had been traded for the camels reluctantly by Castiel. There wasn't likely to be enough forage for them on the long trip and they couldn't spare the room it would take to carry sufficient. The diet of the camels was more tolerant, and for the next three hundred miles the water supplies could be few, and far between.

Sam picked up one of the large hide bags that lay beside the food. The _guerbe_ was made of goatskin, and filled with water. Slow evaporation through the hide kept the water cool, even without shelter. The ten bags would give them almost two weeks' supply.

On the horses, in good country, they'd made forty miles a day. Here, they would be walking, the camels carrying their packs, and the terrain far from good. He thought they might be able to cover twenty miles a day, if they were lucky and didn't run into a sandstorm or flash flooding from a localised thunderstorm, or anything else the desert was likely to throw at them. It would be at least two weeks of steady travelling, more likely a few days more. They would be travelling primarily at night, to avoid the heat of the sun, resting during the midday hours.

"It's time." Rascha came out of the darkness into the narrow circle of firelight of their camp. Sam noticed that his sword was gone from his belt, leaving the knife sheathed at his left hip and his bow, unstrung and held by loops to the strap that lay over his shoulder.

They packed the loads onto the camels in silence, and took the lead ropes as the animals jack-knifed slowly to their feet. The night wind was cold, but light, and their jackets were warm enough. Overhead, the black sky blazed with a million stars, undimmed by any other light source, the moon in her dark phase. Sam saw Rascha look up, staring at the stars for a long moment, then nod to himself, heading south and slightly west into the open country.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

* * *

Dean looked up as a shadow crossed the doorway. Torgva grinned as he came into the shed, holding out two halves of what seemed to be a large metal ball.

Replacing the stone pestle on the table carefully, Dean stood up and walked around the table to look at them.

"Perfect."

The sphere had a thin lip around both halves, and a half thread, cut just under the lip, where they could be joined together with a tight, airless seam. At the top of one half, a small hole had been punched out, to fill the container with the powder, and provide an outlet for the fuse.

"So, when do we see these things of yours do what they are supposed to do?"

"Uh, when the charcoal's finished." Dean looked down at the sphere. "This is too big for a demonstration. I'll use a pot or something for that."

He watched Torgva's eyes go to the table, where the sulphur and potassium nitrate were finished in their bowls. The finely ground powders, yellow and white respectively, were a respectable distance from each other to avoid any possible contamination and subsequent detonation.

"From this, these bits of earth … fire?" Torgva looked back at him, puzzled.

"Yeah, it's a bit complicated without chemistry 101, but the powders have a reaction to each other, causing them to explode … like a log with too much moisture in it might explode on a fire." It was a piss-poor analogy, he thought, but he couldn't get any closer.

"Ah." The smith nodded, then shook his head. "The moisture inside the log becomes steam, that is what causes it to expand and break the log, Dean … these things do this also?"

Dean laughed softly, and shook his head. "No, not really. I can't explain it as well as Sam can, Torgva."

Elbek and Vasiliĭ appeared in the doorway. "The charcoal is ready, Dean."

"Yeah, well let it cool down. We'll put them together in the afternoon." He set the pieces of the casing on the table, and looked over his shoulder at the blacksmith.

"How many of these can you make? And how long will it take?"

"It takes maybe an hour or two to make each one. I could do more, with help."

Dean nodded. "That'll be fine. I'll be able to give you the exact number I need when I've checked the roads."

Elbek looked down into a wide clay tub that sat near the door. The odour rising from it was sharp and acrid, and he wrinkled his nose. The liquid it contained was cloudy, but he could see the coiled length of thick yarn soaking in it.

"And this?" He looked up at Dean.

"Fuse." Dean walked over to him. "To set off the bombs."

"It smells extremely bad."

"It's the guano." He grinned at the hunter. "It'll soak into the yarn, and a … uh, flame will burn down it and ignite the black powder."

He looked from Elbek to Vasiliĭ to Torgva, seeing they were interested, but realising that none of them was really getting the concept of explosives. "You'll see, this afternoon."

They walked out of the shed, and Dean closed the door, dropping the simple wooden toggle latch. No one here would steal anything, hence the lack of locks, but an open door was an invitation, and a closed one a tacit command to not enter.

* * *

Sam stretched out under the shade of the tent, trying to lie still, to keep his body's exertions to a minimum. It shouldn't have been hard, he thought irritably, he was tired enough from the night's walking. But the heat, even in the shade, was both enervating and uncomfortable and the morning had been completely still, so that it clung to him like a suffocating shroud.

He could hear Ruane's soft, even breathing beside him, and a sideways glance to the other shelter showed him the still shapes of Rascha and Castiel, both obviously asleep as well.

He twisted slightly, lifting his shirt from his damp skin, wishing for even the slightest breeze to provide some relief. They had made good time through the night, stopping two hours after dawn, some thirty miles from Halab. It had been tiring, that walk, the ground changing from rock and gravel to an occasional drift of sand, and back to gravel, the air cold and dry and the wind picking up later in the night as the desert gave up its stored heat. By morning, they'd been surrounded by empty land, no sign of people, or animals, no road, or trail to follow, just Rascha's mental course, drawn from the position of the stars and a bearing laid down to the mountain that lay ahead of them.

The hunter had explained what he was doing when Sam had asked, using the pole star to establish north, and then choosing a star in relation to it to lay a bearing to a fixed landmark along their path. As they'd reach the first oddly shaped mesa that Rascha had chosen, he'd stopped and found another star to lay another bearing to a new landmark, and so they had progressed across the trackless ground, moving steadily slightly west of south.

A warm breeze played across him, and he opened his eyes, looking at the small dustdevil that rose and fell a few feet from the tent. The ground was heating up again, and the temperature differential between the earth and the air brought the breeze, stirring the air and moving it. Sam lay back, closing his eyes again as his sweat dried on his skin, the evaporation cooling him and letting him rest.

* * *

They ate when the sun touched the rim of the mountains to the west. The small fire had been built of thorn tree and acacia, and burned smokeless against the mauve sky, cooking the food in the small iron pot, heating the water for tea.

Tea was the desert dweller's drink, Sam had discovered. Water passed through the system too quickly for efficient hydration, tea lasted much longer, deeply hydrating the body. Rascha had bought the fine leaves from the market, and each rest stop they drank the heavily sweetened liquid, drinking plain water only at dawn and dusk. The tea was boiled three times over the fire, then allowed to cool and poured out. It was refreshing, surprisingly so, Sam thought, as it was hot. He hadn't felt the need for more liquid through the day or the night as they walked.

He watched the day's colour bleed out from the sky, dusk rolling over the flat landscape to the east like a slow-moving fog.

"Cas, did anyone know, in Heaven, why Dean and I were vessels for Michael and Lucifer?" he asked softly, sitting next to the angel. The question had bothered him for a long time, the parallel between the archangels and his brother and himself always seeming far too hokey to explain it properly.

Castiel turned his head to him. "There was a lot of speculation."

"What kind of speculation?"

"You read the Book of Enoch, Sam, it must have occurred to you that the lines that the fallen began in this world had led somewhere."

Sam felt his eyes widen slightly as the implications resonated through him. "So, somewhere way back when, we're actually descended from angels?"

The angel inclined his head. "From two lines. The Campbells originated with the children of Azazel."

He heard Sam's indrawn breath and looked at him. "Azazel lived on earth for a long time, Sam. He'd fought with Lucifer against Heaven, but he recanted when push came to shove, choosing to fall and join the Watchers, rather than be thrown into the Pit with his lord and brothers. He couldn't help his nature though and he meddled with humans for hundreds of years while he lived with them. When his mortal form finally died, Lucifer insisted that he be sent to Hell, for his betrayal and for the crimes against humanity he'd perpetrated whilst on earth. God, unfortunately, agreed."

"And Lucifer tortured him?" Sam drew in a breath. "And turned him into a demon."

"Along with the others, yes."

"You said that the Campbell line came from Azazel?" Sam struggled to put these new pieces into place.

"Yes. But the Winchester line originated with another Watcher." Castiel sighed. It had taken him a long time to realise why Raphael had pushed so vehemently for the union of John Winchester and Mary Campbell, and of course it had been far too late when he'd finally realised the scope of the archangel's deeply laid plans. "Araquiel, whom you will meet when we reach Jordan."

"So Dean and I, we both have bloodlines from two different angels?"

Castiel glanced at him. "Yes."

"And that's why we were the vessels?"

"Azazel was compatible with Lucifer. And Araquiel with Michael. Yes."

"But if the bloodlines are mixed, then why wasn't Dean equally suitable for Lucifer? Why did Lucifer insist it had to be me? And Michael that it had to be Dean?"

"The … material … passed along from an angel to a human … isn't precisely genetic, Sam. It doesn't mix and match, in the same way that genes and chromosomes do in purely human biology."

"I don't understand."

"I can't explain it to you more precisely, I'm afraid. You can mix oil and water together, but they will separate if you stop agitating them. The angel … well, genes, for lack of a better word, are like that, they don't become diluted by the human genes, they lie alongside them, as the oil to the water."

"Alright."

"And in the case of the two bloodlines, your genetic makeup received more from the Campbell line, from Azazel. Dean's received more from Araquiel."

"Was that why Azazel chose me? To poison with his blood? To turn me into … something else?" Sam's voice was filled with bitterness and Castiel closed his eyes.

"We think so."

"So, there was never any chance for escaping this, was there? Not even coming back to this time, because we're still fighting the possibility of Lucifer taking over!"

Castiel opened his mouth and closed it abruptly again. That was true. They'd left the devil in the twenty-first century, but here, in this time, they were facing a worse possibility, the devil walking around here, and now, in a time when the population was a fraction of what it was in the future, and complete genocide was a much easier proposition.

His thoughts were flying. Penemue had said that the lines of Destiny had been changed by propitiation to the Fates, a living sacrifice. And then his attempt to travel with the Winchesters had been tampered with, the enormous force of that yank backwards, pulling them back to this time … that hadn't been angels, or God …

* * *

Dean looked at the rock face critically. The explosive was tucked into a crack, about a third of the way up, the black powder encased in a small clay pot, the fuse trailing down and leading away from it. The force should be multi-directional, he thought, although it would have less resistance outward since he hadn't put the pot into the face very deeply. He glanced at the gathered crowd, and waved at the hunters to push them back further. He wasn't completely sure of the power of the device, not yet, and they didn't need anyone injured.

Looking around once more he nodded to himself and walked back to where Vasiliĭ and Torgva stood, the smith holding the end of the white fuse patiently.

"Alright. Let's rock." He took a burning twig from the small fire burning beside them and lit the fuse, enjoying the look of surprise on the surrounding faces as the fuse hissed and crackled, the flame racing along its length toward the rockface.

The explosion was impressive. Every hand flew to ears as the compression was released and the blast wave of expanding air even bowed the trees by the river. Rock and soil blew outward from the cliff, but the effects went deeper, the explosion opening a weakness along the grain of the deeper rock and after a few moments, two or three car-sized boulders broke free along the fault lines and tumbled down to the meadow.

"That is a bomb." Dean turned to Vasiliĭ with a wide grin.

The leader lowered his hands cautiously and looked around at the debris spread from the blast. He nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, now I see."

In the narrow confines of the trails that led to the villages, even a blast this small could bring down sufficient rock to block the passage completely. The demonstration pot had been about the size of his fist, he thought, looking down at his hand. The casings that Torgva had made for Dean were five times as big, more like head-sized. He could imagine now the explosion they would cause.

"Yes. They will not be able to bring their horses with them if we close the roads with these. They can climb over themselves, but it will be a long march on foot, and carrying their own supplies and they will have no weapons greater than they can carry themselves."

Dean nodded, exhaling in relief as he watched Vasiliĭ running through every implication. It would change everything, put the odds back in their favour.

"If we can close the road between the villages and the passes … even if we delay until the snow starts, they won't be able to come at us in winter, not when the passes close. But I need to see those roads, to know how much we'll need." He looked over the damage the small device had caused again. Depending on the narrowness of the gorges, the roads, the passes, he might not need much at all.

Vasiliĭ strode to him, his smile wide, slapping him on the shoulder, a gesture of excitement that just about knocked him over. "Yes. Whatever you need."

* * *

Rascha, Sam and Ruane watched Castiel searching through his belongings furiously.

"Cas, what?"

"The push, the push that sent us back here, it was not the angels, Sam, nor God. It was Fate, one of them or all three, I don't know, I don't really know how powerful they are, except that they are powerful, far more so than angels." He pulled out the clothing from his bag, throwing it onto the ground, feeling around the bottom. His fingers closed around the small cloth bag and he sat back, drawing it out.

"We need a separate fire, further away from the camp. I do not want them to see where we are."

Rascha nodded and got to his feet, taking a bundle of the wood piled near their fire and walking into the night, out beyond the firelight.

"The Fates drew us back here?" Sam stared at Castiel.

"I believe so."

"Why?"

"That's what I need to ask them." He stood, looking down at them. "The last thing either of you want to do is be remembered by the Fates, Sam, Ruane. Stay here."

Sam glanced at Ruane and started to rise. Her hand flashed out, gripping his wrist with a surprising strength.

"Don't, Sam. Casteel is right, you do not want to be noticed or remembered by those who control your destiny. Let him go and ask them." She looked up at him.

He looked after the angel. He didn't want to become more noticed than he already was by the powers that ruled, but he didn't want to leave Castiel to face them on his own either. Rascha came out of the darkness a moment later and dropped to the ground beside them, crossing his legs as he looked across the fire to them.

Sam sank down again, biting the inside of his cheek as he watched the darkness in the direction the angel had gone.

* * *

"How far is it to the southern pass?" Dean looked at Vasiliĭ, swallowing the last mouthful of the rich stew, and taking a hunk of bread to clean the bowl.

"About twelve days' walk from here, White Spring is the last village to the south on this side of the pass." He glanced at Elbek for confirmation, the young hunter had travelled the mountains extensively before settling here with them. Elbek nodded.

By horse, that might take three or four days, Dean thought. "And to the northern pass?"

"To where the road is no longer suitable for wagon travel, it's ten days' walk." Elbek frowned as he thought of that road. There were no other trails that led to it, it was the only way through for anyone on horse, or by cart. "You'll probably have to go hard to get both sides done and back before the harvest, Dean."

He nodded. He could do it, he only needed to look at them, not actually do anything.

"Alis will go with you." Vasiliĭ drained his cup and set it down, looking down the table at the hunter who had raised her head at the mention of her name. Valenis looked up at the same time, her brow furrowing as she glanced between Dean and her daughter, sitting at opposite ends of the table.

"Uh, perhaps someone else, Vasiliĭ," she said softly. "Yuri, or Lyre?"

"No." Dean looked at her. "It's fine with me." He looked down the table, his face expressionless. Alis shrugged, her gaze on Vasiliĭ.

"With me also. When do you want to leave in the morning?" She picked up the bowl, and stood.

"Just before dawn."

She nodded and walked out of the hall. Valenis watched her go, her lips pressed together as she wondered what that had been about. She turned back to Vasiliĭ and lifted a shoulder, shaking her head slightly. She would speak to Alis before she left.

* * *

Castiel settled himself in front of the small fire Rascha had built, holding the small bag of herbs and other ingredients. He took a deep breath, unsure now if he really wanted to know, if he really wanted to get their attention.

_The alternative? None_, he thought with an edge of bitterness. He had to know the truth, had to know what had happened, who was pushing them around like pawns on a chessboard and why.

He threw the bag into the fire, his eyes narrowing to slits as the flames turned from yellow to cerulean and then deepened to indigo as the bag caught fire.

The flames seemed to slow down, lifting higher and twisting languidly into the air, shapes forming deep within them. He watched as the faces of the Moirai appeared, not precisely human, the features weren't quite correct. The first was Clotho, her face wizened and ancient, spider silk hair drifting around it, her eyes gleaming dark and cold, then Lakhesis appeared beside her sister, her features plump and bold, her hair thick and full, swirling upward with the heat of the flames, her lips curving into a cool smile. Finally Atropos, with the smooth skin and delicate face of a maiden, hair long and tangled, streaming outward. The faces in the indigo flames of the fire turned toward him and he braced himself against their collective gaze, all too aware of the power these three held, even over him.

"Who calls in the night?" The whisper did not come precisely as a voice, it trembled in his mind somewhere between the frequencies of the seraphim, and the other creatures that existed on the planes outside of the one he was on. Clothos was ancient, and he, for one, did not equate old with infirmity. She was the most powerful and deadly of the three.

"Seraphim or mortal? It is hard to see you. Speak if you would know something." The voice of Lakhesis, although stronger and deeper, was still not exactly a voice, but it was closer to the mortal plane than her elder sister's.

"Castiel?" Atropos' voice was almost human. She was young, and vibrant and much closer to this plane than either of her siblings. And she knew him, he thought, that alone confirmed it.

"Why have you drawn us to this place, this time?" He made the words come out strongly.

"Ah …"

"Forced we were, to change –"

"one of the lines that led to the destiny in your time, in this time." Atropos finished the answer, and he suddenly remembered how annoying it was to speak to the Moirai.

"The propitiation wassss –"

"correct, and we had no choice but –"

"to accept it, and do as we were asked. We knew what Cesare wanted. The Morning Star rising before his time, into a world he could destroy."

"We could sssssee your –"

"friends, the young men who were to fight –"

"the Devil in the future, so we drew you here. You and Dean and Sam are forever linked to Lucifer's death, Castiel, you had to be involved."

"It wassss only –"

"by the most amazing luck that we could –"

"find you when you were already on the timeline. I do not know that we would have had the strength to draw you back if you had not already been in transit. You must prevent the devil from rising here, Castiel –"

"or all will be –"

"lost forever, this world, all the worlds for he has sworn vengeance –"

"upon his Father and Heaven, and if Cesare can raise him as prophesised then he will have the power to do so, the power of Heaven and Hell bonded together in one vessel."

"Stop!" Castiel looked at the Moirai, his heart pounding against his ribs as he took in what they were telling him.

"You're saying that if the mage finds the vessel, Lucifer has the power of Heaven and Hell at his disposal? All of the souls?"

"Yesssss …"

"he can control the power because of the duality of the vessel,"

"He will bring fire and destruction to this world, Castiel, and to every world that God created."

"What does the mage want?" The angel looked at Clothos.

"Power …"

"he seeks to change the timelines completely, to recreate history,"

"he thinks that Lucifer will give him the power to rule the world, the Deceiver has lied to him, caressed and manipulated him, told him what he wants to hear."

_What a surprise_, Castiel thought, _a witch believing the lies of the Devil_.

"Can we stop it? They are human, and I may as well be." He looked from one face to the other, seeing the outlines begin to fade as the summoning spell died.

"Yessss …"

"maybe, we cannot see this line, not yet, it hasn't been woven to its end,"

"you must, Castiel, you are bound to the Fate of Lucifer, only you three can stop it, and it must be now because the future as already been –"

The faces disappeared and the flames soared for a moment, before returning to their normal yellow colouring, flickering over the dry acacia wood that was almost ash.

Already been … what? Castiel closed his eyes in frustration. He didn't think Sam was going to be happy to hear this, and his brother even less so.


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

* * *

Dean saw the faint light gleaming in the barn as he walked down through the square, one door standing open, the now familiar gold light of an oil lamp spilling out onto the ground. He glanced up at the sky. It was still full dark, not even the earliest traces of grey showing yet.

Alis sat on the heavy timber rails that made up the pens, gently honing the edge of her blood metal knife as she waited. The horses had been fed and watered an hour before, and were saddled, the thick hide bedrolls and extra armoury tied securely on. She looked up as Dean walked through the door, sliding off the rail and tucking her knife into its sheath, the stone into the pocket of her jacket. She nodded to him, and walked to the head of her mare, pulling the bridle over the ears and settling it along the cheeks.

He walked to his own mount's head and drew on the bridle, deciding against making a comment. If she wanted to do all the work, that was okay with him. He turned back to the saddle, and secured the round bag he'd brought with him. Nested in tightly packed straw inside it, four more of the demonstration bombs were ready, in case any of the village leaders needed to see them work. He didn't think they would be necessary, but better to have them along than not. The saddle bag wasn't heavy and the fuses were packed separately.

He untied the reins from the rail and led the dark brown gelding to the doors, pulling the soft cloak more closely around himself against the chill mountain air, and mounting as the light in the barn was extinguished.

The gate keepers unbarred and drew back the gates as they sat on the horses, waiting.

"Which way first?"

He looked over at her, barely able to see her features in the darkness. "South."

She nodded and closed her legs against the mare's sides, riding through the gates and turning right. He followed, resettling the sword against his thigh and nodding to Petyr, who had gate duty this morning as he passed through. Bare essentials it was, he thought.

* * *

Sam walked next to Castiel, the camels following along amicably for once. He looked at the angel's profile, outlined by the starlight.

"They actually said that we, you and me and Dean, were tied to the fate of Lucifer?"

"That's what they said." Castiel kept his gaze on the ground, the dim light just enough to make out the shadows of rock and hole and lip, enough anyway to stop from tripping them over or falling into them.

They had listened to Castiel's recounting of his meeting with the Fates, and then packed up their gear and loaded the camels, setting out after dark. The wind blew steadily from the east, ice cold after the heat of the day, and coating them gradually with the fine dust from the desert.

Ahead, Rascha walked point, following his bearing, leading them south. Miles to the east, the wind carried the high pitched laugh of hyena, and a moment later the deep-throated roar of a lion. Sam glanced at the camels following, who seemed stoically unmoved by the sound of the predator. He remembered reading that the big cats had been populous in these lands at one time – this time, obviously, he thought.

The ground rose slightly ahead of them, and their feet sank into the sand drift. He felt the muscles of his thighs and back protest the change. The gravel plains were hard on the feet, but better for the body, he thought absently, as he felt the sand shifting under his feet.

"All that talk, from Michael and the others, about the inevitability of Destiny, how things can't be changed … did you know that was all bullshit, Cas?" he asked.

"No, I thought it was fixed, that it had been fixed from the beginning," Castiel replied. "I was never that highly ranked, Sam. I knew the Fates could alter destinies, sometimes, in small ways, but I thought the major lines were as immutable as … as … God."

Sam heard the bewilderment in the angel's voice and shook his head. "After everything we've been through, Cas, everything you've seen … your faith is hard to shake, man."

"I thought it was gone." He looked at Sam, lifting a shoulder. "It's hard to know what you still believe in until it's tested again, I suppose."

Sam looked away. Faith was belief, he thought, and knowing was not the same thing as believing. It didn't matter, not really. If it had always been about killing Lucifer, ending it once and for all, then that was what they'd have to do.

* * *

The road wound through the river valley, dropping away on one side, to the flats through which the river raced, and rising, often steeply, on the other, the slope covered in sweet mountain grass and starred with wildflowers. Dean looked around, a memory floating through his mind of a postcard he'd seen once, in some motel or other, of a scene remarkably like this. It had been from Switzerland, he thought.

The sun was warm, and as they approached Black Valley, the fields became more orderly, the spring wheat and barley tall and bending in the light breeze, rippling like golden seas between the road and the river. It seemed impossible that anything could destroy this, could harm it. They rode around the bend and saw the village ahead, the ground that had been churned to mud and filled with bodies a few months ago, now lush with grass, people moving in and out of the village, between the orchards and storehouses and fields.

Alis lifted an arm as the guards on the palisade watched them. Dean noticed that four archers had arrows drawn on them, and that word had been sent to the leader that strangers were riding down the valley.

Need some kind of signal, he thought, something that helps to identify friends or enemies at a distance. Telescope would be good. He didn't know if they'd been invented yet or not, but he'd seen some glass work in the village, and even clear quartz could be ground and polished to make a lens, he thought. Something else he'd forgotten to check with Sam or Cas.

The archers did not lower their bows until they reached the gate and Alis called out to the guard. He wondered how many travellers had been through this season, and what they'd thought of the new protocols.

He pulled up his horse next to Alis, as she leaned from her saddle to lick the salt spilled onto her hand and take the iron rod that was the only means they'd come up with for testing so far. Beyond the gates, every village had a devil's trap, cut deep into the soil and filled with molten lead. Most were grown over now, enough so that they weren't immediately obvious. Along with the iron and salt through the walls, it kept the inside of the village protected.

The guard nodded them through and they dismounted in the square, as Mikhail hurried down from the keep to greet them.

"It is good to see you, Dean. Everything is working, is Sam with you? Kirill has been talking of your brother incessantly since he left." He looked at Alis, gesturing to her. "How is your mother, Alis? Is she taking more apprentices this year? We could use another healer."

Alis smiled at him. "She is well. Yes, she said she would take on two new apprentices this year." She glanced at Dean and he handed her his reins, stepping toward the village leader.

"Uh, Sam's not with us, Mikhail. He had another job he had to finish." Dean turned and walked up the roughly paved track to the keep with Mikhail. Alis watched him go, impressed by the smooth way he'd managed that. She led the horses down to the village's big barn, and saw them settled for the night in pens, then walked slowly up to the keep, stopping along the way to talk to people she hadn't seen since the attack.

Despite the relatively short distances, the villages didn't get much time to socialise with each other. The younger people were sent from one to another, to learn a trade or meet prospective spouses, but that was all, except for very special events, when two or three villages might join together. On foot, it was a long way to go. And there was always work to be done. They were like squirrels, she thought, spending all their time gathering and preparing food so that they could survive the winter.

Dean glanced over his shoulder halfway to the keep, and saw her take the horses down to the barn, turning his attention back to Mikhail as the man told him about the preparations they'd made, and those they were planning on making. Kirill had delivered blood metal weaponry, even arrow heads now, to the villages along the mountain road. No one had used them in an attack yet. The road had been very quiet for this time of year, though, not a single traveller from the south coming through.

No, Dean thought bleakly, remembering Mika's report. The population well south of them would have a different story to tell.

They would spend the night here, he decided. Leave before dawn again tomorrow, and then camp each night when the light was too poor to keep riding.

* * *

The hall was filled with people, and the noise in the large, high space was considerable. Dean leaned close to Mikhail, explaining the plan for the high road. Each village would provide one or two men to watch the road, to light the signal fires, and to set off the bombs that would block the passes. The men could be rotated for those duties, he thought.

The demon armies had another four months, maximum, before the weather closed the passes for the winter. Sam had told him that armies, of any reasonable size, marched between ten and twenty miles a day, if they were carrying supplies. Were the demons carrying supplies? Did they care about the meatsuits enough to feed them, rest them? He shook his head, even if the men were driven, the horses could not be. They would have to rest them, let them forage.

He leaned his chin on his hand, his gaze moving around the hall, thinking of how the army would move through the mountains, across the peaks and valleys, along the narrow roads. The Romans had built their roads as they'd gone, he remembered. The Greeks hadn't bothered, but theirs had been an army of infantry. Horses could move faster, go further in a day's travel, and the Scythians were from the harshest lands, would find it easy to feed themselves in these lands.

What were the Watchers doing here? He thought of the prophecy. If they were looking for someone, why send an army? Why not send raiding parties, or scouts, even? The party who'd attacked Black Valley had not been looking for anyone, he remembered. They had surrounded the village with the pure intent of killing everyone inside. Like the Egyptians, the memory rose unbidden from an old Charlton Heston movie. Slaughter them all.

He straightened up slightly. A seek and find mission, and a seek and destroy mission? One army looking for the vessel, the other making sure that no one would be left to fight the devil when he rose? Did that mean that the prophecies had included something about a countering force? Not that he'd that much experience with prophecies, he thought, but the ones he had been … involved … with had had that counterbalance built in.

The glimpse of dark red hair, in the midst of the crowd, dragged his thoughts back from the speculation. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face tiredly. There was nothing he could do with this information, except what he was already doing. He couldn't contact Cas or Sam, couldn't warn them or ask them anything. He could only keep going, try to protect the villages, the people, and hope like hell they weren't all missing something vital.

Mikhail glanced at him, and shook his head. "You should rest, if you are leaving early tomorrow."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

"There is a room, for you and your kinswoman. I will have the men ready by the time you come back, Dean." Mikhail murmured something to the woman sitting next to him, and she stood, looking at Dean expectantly.

He glanced back at the crowd in the hall, looking for Alis. He couldn't see her, and shrugged. She would find their quarters eventually, he guessed. He followed the older woman out of the hall and down to a small square room, furnished with two beds and a table, a wide clay bowl filled with water sitting on it.

Stripping down, he sank onto one of the beds, his mind still ticking over.

* * *

Sam crouched beside Rascha, both of them tucked under the overhanging branches of a small thorn tree, twenty yards from the brackish watering hole. Neither spoke or moved, waiting, as the sky paled slowly to the east, for the animals that would come to drink here.

Sam's gaze was on the water, but unfocussed. It was something Rascha had taught him, about hunting animals, not to focus, but to diffuse his attention, to blend in with the soil, the plants, the rocks … not a living aware creature, but a part of the environment.

"_Animals have senses that are more attuned to living things than ours are, although we can train our senses to be the same. An animal will feel itself being watched, will feel the intensity of attention on it. So you become … still, within as well as without, without emotion or thought, nothing to make you different from the rock you sit beside, the tree you sit under, the soil under your feet."_

He'd understood the concept, but had found putting it into practice a lot harder than he'd thought. Stray thoughts flitted through his mind and it had taken a while for him to learn to ignore them, to let his mind empty and become quiet and passively receptive.

The small gazelle approached from the north, walking a little this way, a little that, as she searched for danger. Behind her, several others waited, alert and ready to leap and run at the first sign of anything alarming. Sam watched her enter his field of vision without registering her at all.

She came up to the water's edge and waited, looking around. Then she dipped her head and drank a little. The rest of the small herd followed her down to the hole, still watchful, still alert, but thirsty now. When all eight animals were drinking, the two hunters drew and fired together, each arrow taking a gazelle precisely behind the shoulder, piercing the ribcage and finding the wildly beating heart.

The rest of the gazelle fled, and Sam was just rising from his crouch when the cat leapt out from a larger group of thorn trees, on the other side of the watering hole, tail lashing as she fixed her golden gaze on him.

He froze, staring back at the lioness, the analytical part of his mind noting that she was smaller than the lions of Africa, lighter-framed, closer in size and appearance to a cougar.

"Sam." Rascha's voice was a whisper next to his knees. "Move very slowly to your left."

Sam felt a trickle of sweat run down behind his ear. Left? That would take him closer to the lioness. He swallowed and eased his left foot across the sand, shifting his weight and sliding his right foot after. His knife was sheathed behind his right hip, and he reached slowly for it, pulling it free as he slid to the left another step.

The cat watched him, eyes narrowed. The tail had stopped moving and he could see the muscles of hindquarters and shoulders contracting, the pads of the large feet spreading out a little as she readied herself to attack.

Didn't lionesses hunt in groups? The thought flashed through his mind as she sprang, straight at him. He tensed, ready to jump to the side, his fingers gripping the knife hilt tightly and heard the whap and whistle as Rascha fired his first arrow, saw it hit the cat's side, behind the shoulder, the impact pushing it sideways, the second arrow already fired and punching through the big artery of the neck, above the windpipe.

The cat lay on her side, panting fast as the arrowheads worked deeper into her. Sam turned slowly toward her, hearing Rascha rising behind him. They walked to the lioness, as her breath stopped and Sam watched the beautiful topaz eyes glaze over in the dry desert air.

Rascha sighed. "A shame, she was young."

"I thought lionesses hunted in packs?" Sam looked around the silent waterhole. With the colouring of the fur, soft golds and tans and greys intermingled, he knew he wouldn't be able to pick one out, if there was one hiding there.

Rascha looked at him. "No, I haven't heard that. At least not here. The young males sometimes stay together for a while, after they old enough to hunt alone. But females seem to find a territory, mark it for themselves and live alone, except for mating season."

More like a mountain lion from home than an African lion then, Sam thought. He watched Rascha pull the arrows from the body, cleaning them and replacing them in his quiver. He pulled out a long knife, looking up at Sam and gesturing to the gazelle.

"I'll take her skin, Sam, you should get those two, the waterhole will not remain deserted for long."

Sam nodded, thinking of the eerie cries of the hyena he'd heard. He turned and pulled the arrows from the small gazelles, cleaning them. Like the lioness, the gazelle were smaller than he'd thought they'd be, about the size of a small goat or lamb. He lifted one and nodded to himself. Maybe twenty or thirty pounds each. He knelt and lashed the legs together, returning to the thorn tree for the staff they'd brought with them. Sliding it between the lashings, he cut both throats, and lifted the staff, the blood draining from the animals as he stood and waited for Rascha.

With the skin over the top, it took both of them to carry their kills back to their camp. Ruane made quick work of skinning and dressing the gazelle, her knife very sharp and many years of practice guiding her hands. Sam dug a hole a hundred yards from the camp to bury what they couldn't take. They would be gone before the scavengers came in the darkness to investigate the smells of blood and death.

On the other side of their small, smokeless fire, Rascha had laid the skin out and was scraping the flesh from the hide. By evening, it would be clean and dry enough to roll and carry with them, and he would cure it properly when they reached their destination.

Sam and Castiel settled the camels, unpacking the shelters and setting them up. The angel found that the routine of their days, the travelling, the camp, even hunting for food or water, was soothing, calming. He had spent so many years, as an invisible watcher over the humans in his area, observing them but rarely wondering about them, that it astonished him that he could have missed these important discoveries – the peace that came from knowing what had to be done and doing it, the comfort of being close to another, close enough to share fear and doubt as well as the moments of happiness, the strength that came when several people were together, with a common goal – all these things he'd missed about humanity. Perhaps it had to be lived to be understood, he thought. Perhaps one had to be mortal to receive these gifts, be aware of death and its inevitability, before one could live.

Sam looked up at the sky. It was clear from horizon to horizon, pale right now, but the colour would deepen as the sun rose and gained in strength. He sat under the shade of the shelter and prepared the tea. They would eat in an hour or so, then sleep for several hours, waking as the dusk approached. Life was very simple here, he thought bemusedly, remembering the life they'd left behind, full of rush and drama and pain and loss. He wished that Dean was here, thinking that this time, in the desert with no distractions, nothing to be done but the travel and the small, daily routine, would have given him the rest he needed.

* * *

Dean woke abruptly at the soft noise. The room was dark, windowless. He heard the scrape of a leather sole over the stone again.

"Alis?"

"Yes." Her voice came from the other side of the room. "I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you."

"S'okay." He settled back against the furs and closed his eyes, listening.

The soft burring noise, laces being loosened from boots. Very soft clunks of them being dropped onto the floor. Leather made a whispering noise as it was scrunched up and drawn off. The furs hissed slightly as they slid over each other. He heard her exhale, not loud, but long.

He'd been deeply asleep, he thought, a moment later, restfully asleep, and now that was gone. He shifted, rolling over, looking for a more comfortable position. In the still air of the room, he could almost smell her scent, a light smell, of fields and woods, leather and wool, underlaid very faintly by a soft muskiness. When he'd been stuck with bed rest, his back healing, he'd become so familiar with that scent he'd barely noticed it. Now, it brought a host of memories with it.

He frowned and rolled back, shutting his eyes tightly as he tried to clear his mind. _Kiya, think about Kiya_. Long, dark hair. Big, dark eyes. He concentrated on her, but the images slipped away, without sufficient emotion to keep them vivid or bright.

_Fine. _Think about Sam. They must be almost to the Watchers by now. He missed cell phones. Any kind of phone. And bullets. He really missed bullets. And the car. God, he missed the car. On the other hand, he thought, turning over again, he didn't think he'd ever been as fit as he was now. Or as fast. When they got back … he felt the weight of the thought sink in and opened his eyes.

When they got back to their own time, their own world. Would that world even be there? He shook his head slightly. It didn't matter. The world might still be there, Bobby might still be there. The monsters would probably be still there. In that world, it would be him and Sam again. No friends. No family. The only other hunters in that world wanted to kill Sam. Probably him too. In that world, there were jobs and money and archangels wanting to turn them into condoms. And loneliness. And loss.

"_What else is there to do?"_

Valenis' words. Here, grief could be shared, loved ones were remembered by everyone. At home … there was only him and Sam and Bobby. And none of them knew how to make it feel better, make it feel alright. They kept on fighting, he guessed that was one of way of honouring their dead, but it was a fight conducted in despair.

He hadn't felt that despair here. There had been too much to do, too much to think about. He thought about never seeing the leader of Deep Ice again. Or the healer. Or Torgva, Lyre, Guin, Yuri, Elbek, Kiya, Marat … or Alis.

Never hunting a monster through a thousand year old forest, or across the glacier under a frigid white moon, with the knowledge that to either side, behind and in front, there were experienced hunters with them, hunters who would give up their lives for each other as unthinkingly as he would for them. Never going into a battle, in armour, sword in his hand, the feel of it as natural as breathing now, every skill they'd ever learned utilised to its fullest extent, to pit those skills and their bodies against a common foe and protect the people who needed them. Never working the fields, and at the end of those hard, long days, sitting with them, everyone aching from the work, drinking the icy cider from the casks that had been left in the river all day, talking and just being there, with them, a part of them.

Memories, like a wild, spring flood, filled his mind. Moments of peace. Moments of living. Moments that couldn't ever be replicated in his world, the world they'd come from.

He hadn't thought of going back, it was inevitable that they must, set things right here and return, as inevitable as the sun coming up in the morning and he'd never even asked the question.

_Did he want to?_


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

* * *

"Rascha, stop." Castiel looked around, his eyes narrowed. "I've been here before."

They had crossed into Jordan four days ago, over a mountain range that was green and lush, heavily forested and filled with game and bear and wolf, the rich soils watered by the steady stream of moisture from the Mediterranean Sea to the west. The camels had remained unimpressed but had eaten well.

Descending the mountains, Castiel had told the dark hunter to choose a route bearing more eastward, and they had found the desert again after two days walking. Last night, they had come into another mountain range, this one lower, and barren, the harsh red rock and pebbled canyon floors trapping the sun's heat within their walls until well after dark.

_Hammada_, Rascha called it. Bedrock scoured and carved into fantastic shapes and smooth flowing curves by ancient waters and constant wind, deep canyons forever shadowed, caves and hollows and ledges of dark basalt.

Rascha waited for the angel patiently, his camel shifting its weight from foot to foot.

"Yes, ahead there will be a canyon leading south. That is where we are going."

Sam and Ruane glanced at each other, and followed Rascha as he moved forward again.

"You've been here before?" Sam looked at Castiel. "I thought you were just … invisible, when you were stationed here?"

"I was. But a part of my orders were to keep an eye on the Watchers, and on the nephilim." Castiel looked up at the slice of blue sky above them. The hammada was too difficult to navigate through at night, and they would have another few hours of daylight before it became too dark to see their way.

"Cas, when Penemue came to the village – was that a vessel's body? Like yours? Or was it his own?"

The angel was silent for a long moment, looking down at the ground as he walked. "It was Penemue's body. There are different ways for an angel to fall, Sam."

"Anna tore out her Grace, and was born into a human child?"

"That is one way, yes. It was … unorthodox, but her timing was precise, the egg and sperm meeting at exactly the same time as she penetrated the cells. She was able to provide the cells with creative life, enough to make the human cells viable, to start embryogenesis."

"And the others?" He looked curiously at the angel.

"The Watchers fell before the war in Heaven. They were chosen by God to provide wisdom and knowledge to humanity. Their bodies are a … translation, almost, of their angelic spirits … their … frequencies … in a physical form that is compatible with the human genome." He stumbled through the explanation, seeking words that could explain it, although the words he found weren't accurately describing what had occurred. "So the Watchers are human-like, to look at, but also angelic in their appearance."

Sam thought of the single Watcher he'd met, and nodded. More beautiful, more … perfectly formed than an ordinary person, yet not so much that it would be too unnatural for a person to bear to see. Vampires also held that strange perfection, too-vivid eyes and marble-like skin. Most people did flinch from their beauty though, recognising instinctively the predator behind the iridescent eyes.

"What about those who fell with Lucifer?" he asked. Castiel sighed.

"When Michael defeated his brother, in Heaven, he cut off Lucifer's wings. And Lucifer fell. He looks … almost … mortal now, although he is not a mortal. The transformation from angel followed a similar kind of process as that of the Watchers, but not quite. Those who fell with him also had their wings cut off. I suppose some saint or prophet saw it happen in a vision at some time in humanity's history, because it seems to have taken hold as the only way an angel can fall in most of the speculation written about it. But it only happened to them, their fall was from Grace, neither freely chosen nor desired."

"What do they look like?" He wasn't sure if the demon Azazel, once an angel, had chosen his vessel deliberately or randomly.

"They are beautiful, and terrible. Their bodies are marked with the evil that lives inside of them and it is reflected in how they appear. Lucifer means _light bringer_ in Latin, and in Heaven he was. Filled with light and beauty, he was breathtaking, even to other angels, even to his brothers. But humanity calls him the dark angel now, and that is, at least partly, accurate. Still beautiful but the light that fills him is no longer bright."

He fell silent, and Sam walked beside him, waiting.

"For a long time, he had no human souls in the pit with him. And he tortured his followers for amusement and for release of his wrath." Castiel's voice was quiet. "Those who fell with him no longer resemble anything, neither angel nor human, not even demon. They are wraiths, composed of hatred and rage and pain, ruling the levels of Hell with only one purpose left."

"What's that?"

"To rise again, to destroy humanity and the works of creation and find peace in the everlasting darkness."

Sam shivered slightly at the angel's words. "Could they succeed?"

"If Lucifer is resurrected, quite possibly."

* * *

The walls of the pass towered above them, over a hundred feet and almost vertical. Dean looked at them carefully, looking for fault lines and cracks, weaknesses in the stone. To his right, the top was an overhang, reaching out over the road. This was the southern most pass that led to the hundred miles of villages along the river valleys of the mountains. He didn't think it would be difficult to close it completely. It was almost a quarter mile long, but barely sixty feet wide at the widest point, fifty or sixty feet above the road, and within the confines of the walls, they rode in shadow, the sunlight high above them, lighting only the top.

On either side of the defile, the ridges fell away, and thick forest crowded close to the road, the trees tall and old. The forest they'd just passed through, on the northern end, had been several miles deep, along the road, spreading further to the east and west, the slopes tangled with yew and alder, beech and oak and maple and hornbeam. The undergrowth itself looked difficult to get through.

He glanced ahead, seeing Alis turning in the saddle to look back at him, as she passed out between the walls of rock and entered the deep, green gloom of the forest. He heard the whicker through the air, and turned his head, the punch of the arrow almost knocking him from the saddle. Scrabbling to stay on his horse, he stared down at the straight ash shaft, white feathers incongruously bright, that emerged from his left shoulder, his right hand gripping his horse's mane tightly. Alis spun her mare around and galloped back toward him, his own horse spinning on its haunches and accelerating into a gallop as an arrow plunged into its rump. The defile wasn't straight, with two pronounced bends in the middle, which he thought, much later, was what had saved them.

As they rounded the second bend, he pulled his gelding to a stop, Alis overshooting and wheeling her mare around as he threw himself off the animal.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't outrun them, and there's no way I'm letting them in here." His fingers fumbled with the ties on the saddle bag, yanking at the knots one-handed. "I've got to bring it down, right now."

She dropped from her horse and pushed him out of the way, her fingers working fast at the ties, pulling the bag off and handing it to him as he held the horses.

"We have to get that out." She stared at the feathered shaft.

"Later, this is more important." He looked up the road. "Tie the horses near the forest. And get your bow, you're going to have to cover me."

Alis looked involuntarily up at the high sides of the rock walls to either side of them, understanding what he was planning. She gathered the reins of the horses and led them down the road at a run, pulling her bow from her saddle as she tied them, stringing it and nocking the first arrow on the string as she hurried back to him.

"Where?"

"In between the two bends. Do you have enough arrows?" He tried to lift his own quiver free with his good arm, face screwing up as the movement dragged at the barbed arrowhead still in his body.

She lifted it from him, swinging it over her shoulder. Their eyes met for a moment then she was moving along the rock face, senses straining to hear, to see, to smell the enemy as they approached.

Dean looked up at the rock wall and pulled in a deep breath. Climbing one handed was going to need every bit of strength and will power he had. And once he got up there, he could look forward to setting, priming and packing the small clay pots into whatever crevices he could find, with either one hand, or none if he also needed to hold onto the rock. He hoped he'd have sufficient length of fuse to be able to do this properly, a half-assed attempt might startle the demon-driven Scythians but that would be all.

He tied the saddle bag to his belt and reached for the first handhold he could see, a little above his reach. The movement brought fresh pain from the arrow, and he closed his jaw against it, pushing it back, ignoring it, finding a ledge with his feet, and reaching up for the next knob of rock above him. Just another forty or so feet, he told himself, where the rock starts to lean out, that will do.

The climb was agonising in its slowness. He couldn't look down, couldn't look anywhere other than for the next handhold, his feet scrabbling on the rocks below him to find an edge, a lip, anything to support him while he shifted his grip. A solid ledge, fifty feet up, brought a shudder of relief, and he leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply for a minute to shed the adrenalin from his body, stop the shaking of his muscles.

The crevice was narrow, but deep, and he slid the first of the small clay pots into it, pushing it as far as he could reach, the fuse dangling out of the hole like a tail. He looked along the broken ledge he stood on, seeing that it ran nearly twenty feet long this side of the wall, rising and falling a little but mostly straight. He inched his way along it, keeping his back pressed tight to the wall, his weight on his heels. The next hole was shallower, but above it, a long crack rose, zigzagging up the face, undercutting the convex curve of the rock above him. He cut the fuse and inserted it, leaving a reasonable tail hanging out. He'd already realised there was only going to be one way to light the fuses without blowing themselves up.

When the second bomb was placed, he looked down and fervently wished he hadn't. The drop looked much worse from here. He reached out and closed his hand in a smaller crevice, feeling his fist lock against the sides of the rock, then eased himself around until he was facing the wall again. He found another hole, down near his hip, and locked his closed fist into it again, then bent his knees and started to search with the toe of his boot for a foothold.

Climbing down took almost twice as long as the climb up had taken, and as his feet hit the ground, he realised that he could hear shouting and screams from around the bend.

He ran to the edge of the rock, crouching and edging the side of his face past enough to see. Alis stood half concealed by the edge of the second bend, firing almost continuously, the reach, nock, draw and fire motion a blur. Three horses and four men lay dead in the middle of the road, the grey fletching of the goose feathers favoured by the Deep Ice warriors bright against the dark colours of the soldiers. She was using the blood metal arrowheads from Kirill, he realised belatedly. He looked at the quivers on her back, seeing few feathered tops left in them, and looked up at the other side of the road.

If he moved back, and took the other side down closer to the forest, he thought the rockfalls between the two might be enough. He rolled away from the corner of the bend, straightening and running down toward the forest, crossing the road when the bend covered him from sight. This side was less vertical, and he climbed up quickly, ignoring the starbursts of pain that a too-quick movement caused, the steady throbbing of the wound, the way his vision was blurring and getting a little foggy at the edges. He tucked the pots into two crevices, much closer together than the first two, and packed the fuses in tightly. He missed his foothold as he turned, and bit back a scream as he skidded down ten feet of wall, the rocks slicing through the hardened leather armour like razors. He hit a lower ledge hard, the impact jarring through his body and making his teeth snap suddenly together, arm windmilling as he leaned out, then shifted his weight back, feeling the wall behind him with relief. The fogginess around the edges of his vision was much deeper now, and he closed his eyes tightly, dragging in deep breath after breath, until it cleared away a little.

"Alis!"

He scrambled down the rest of the wall as fast as he could, looking up as she ran around the corner.

"They're right behind me."

"Can you see the fuses?" He looked up the wall to his right. She followed his gaze and nodded.

He pulled four of arrows from the quiver on her back, and they ran for the horses. Alis pulled out the small oil lamp she'd packed for camping, and poured oil over the iron heads. She dropped the lamp and nocked the first on her string, Dean pulled out his lighter, hoping there'd still be some fluid left in it. He didn't have enough time to fool around with flint and steel.

The flame leapt up as he spun the wheel and the oil coating the arrowhead was alight. Alis turned and fired at the first fuse as the thunder of hoofbeats filled the ravine. She had the second arrow nocked and lit, and it found the second fuse as the first horseman came around the corner, bow raised and arrow flying toward them.

Dean watched the flames race up the fuses and disappear into the crevices, turning away as the first bomb blew. The outward blast brought down several tons of rock onto the Scythians in between the two curves in the road. The second explosion, under the overhang, spewed out more, and he and Alis ran back, as the slower effects of the two began to be obvious. The deep fault had sheared vertically and horizontally and the massive block of stone that supported the overhang was pulled inexorably by gravity downwards. It fell, and the crash sent a huge cloud of dust into the air, filling the defile and rolling toward them.

"The other two." He pointed to the other side, lighting the arrowhead, watching her spin and fire, the arrow finding the fuse, as the cloud reached them. Her fourth arrow missed, she thought, turning and running toward the horses, but the explosion behind them proved her wrong.

One Scythian, the first through, rode out of the defile through the thick dust, the arrow he fired brushing by her head, leaving a shallow furrow against her scalp. She fell forward, twisting as she hit the ground, staring up at him as the horse drew closer, her hand reaching for the sword at her hip.

"Roll right."

Dean's voice was quiet and calm behind her, and she obeyed it automatically, rolling fast to the right, out from under the horse's feet, seeing him swing the black blade high as the dust cloud rolled over both men and horse, hiding them and leaving her only with the clang and clash of the sword on metal, even that muffled by the dust that permeated the air.

She lifted her hand to her head as she got up, the scalp wound bleeding profusely but not deep, safe enough to leave for a while. The horses snorted and stamped as she went to them, the explosions and screams and ongoing creaking and groaning coming from the defile walls frightening them.

Dean walked out of the cloud, coughing and spitting out the rock dust, his sword red to the hilt with blood. She took the sword and wiped it clean, slipping it back into the scabbard as he leaned against his horse, his eyes caked with dust and bleary with pain.

"Put your hand on my shoulder." She bent her knees and braced herself as he slid his knee into her hands, his hand tightening around her shoulder as she straightened and lifted. He managed to get his hand onto his horse's neck, holding his weight over the wither, and swing his leg over the saddle.

"We need to make sure that none get through." He looked down at her. She nodded.

"We will. There is a stream, a mile into the forest. We'll camp there." She looked up at him. "I have to get that arrow out of you."

"Awesome." He swayed forward then back, and Alis' hand flashed out to grip his arm, stilling the motion. "Thanks."

She turned away and mounted, pushing the mare close to his gelding with her legs, until she could reach his reins. "Just stay upright for a bit longer, then you can rest."

"Okay."

Alis' looked back as they turned off the road into the forest. The slow-moving cloud had risen far above the defile, but she hadn't heard any noise since the last big rock had fallen. When they'd come out, after that first ambush, she'd thought there might have six or eight. She knew she'd killed four for certain. And Dean had taken a fifth. Had the others all been crushed? She hoped so. Neither of them were in good enough shape to take on another attack tonight. They would check, at first light. He would want to see if the pass was blocked anyway, she thought.

The clearing was tucked behind a thick screen of trees and undergrowth, the stream running along the northern side, and she stopped the horses, slipping down and unfolding his fingers from the mane, easing him out of the saddle. He shook his head as his feet touched the ground, knees sagging then straightening.

"I'm alright."

"Yes, come and sit down."

He leaned on her as they stumbled away from the horses to a log that lay to one side of the small clearing.

"Are we there yet?"

"Yes, we're here, sit." She tightened her grip, swearing softly at him as he apparently relinquished control over his legs and dropped, lowering him the last foot or so to the ground, his head tipping back to rest against the top of the log.

She went to her saddle bag, pulling out the soft roll of cloth from the bottom. Just because she didn't want to follow her mother as a healer, didn't mean she didn't know what she was doing, she thought, taking it and unrolling it next to him. She unbuckled the leather chest plate and shoulder pauldron, cutting the piece where the arrow had pierced free of the rest. The Scythian bows had powerful draws. The arrow had punched through the layers of boiled leather and the thin sheet of metal sewn in between them, driving shavings of metal and leather into the wound as well as the fabric of his clothing underneath. She pulled him forward and saw the point just protruding from beside the outer edge of his shoulder blade, the skin lifted but unbroken, closing her eyes at the thought of what that meant. The arrowheads were barbed, she could not pull it back out, not without ripping him up inside.

She leaned back on her heels, letting out her breath in a heavy exhale, and was surprised to find his eyes open and looking steadily at her, the bleak understanding of what was needed in his face.

"I know where it is, Alis. You have to do it."

She looked away, shaking her head. "I can't."

"If you don't, I'll die of infection," he said. "You can, you have to."

She looked back at him, looking at the end of the arrow. "It will hurt worse than it felt going in."

"Yeah, I know." He looked around. "Give me the belt."

She reached over and passed him the thick leather strap, doubling it, then moved around to his side, leaning close to his shoulder as she lifted the heel of her hand to the end of the arrow shaft. "Tell me when you're ready."

He looked up at her, his green eyes bright with pain as he smiled. "Shit, Alis, I'm never going to be ready for this, go when you feel like you can do it in one move." He turned his head away from the arrow, lifting the belt.

She waited for him to put the belt between his teeth, checked that she had the correct angle, and then pushed, with all her strength and the weight of her body, against the end of the shaft.

The arrow point broke through the skin, emerging slowly under the pressure, the sight of the vicious multiple barbs giving her the anger to keep forcing it out until the head was clear.

Beside her, she heard his scream, muffled through the belt. As the head came out, Dean sagged against the log, his eyes half-rolled back, as the backwash of the pain slowed and became almost bearable again. Alis took the belt as his jaw relaxed, swallowing as she saw the depth of the bite mark in it, dropping it. She drew her knife, scoring around the shaft under the arrowhead repeatedly until it broke cleanly.

"One more, then we can clean it out," she said quietly, looking at the dead white of his skin, the scattering of freckles standing out against it. He nodded and dragged in a deep breath, holding it as she drew out the shaft. Blood flowed from the wound, pumped steadily with the beating of his heart, and she wiped the areas around the holes, letting it flow out and take the debris with it.

She pulled a thick glass bottle from the roll and freed the softwood plug from its top.

"This will hurt too."

He didn't open his eyes.

She poured the clear liquid into the wound from front to back, and the alcohol bit into the flesh, scouring it from one side of his shoulder to the other. His eyes flew open and his fingers closed hard around her arm.

"What the fuck was that?" He looked at the bottle in her hand. "Alcohol?"

"Yes, slivovitz." She looked at him. "Plum brandy."

"Sonofabitch." He rolled his eyes tiredly, and held out his hand. She gave him the bottle, her brows rising a little as he lifted it and tipped it into his mouth, swallowing fast as the contents gurgled out. "You didn't think to tell me about this?"

"You didn't ask." She took the bottle from him. "I always carry it because it cleans the wounds out better than just boiled water and salt."

"Sure does."

She turned away and picked out a small jar of fine powder, taking several pinches and dusting it into the hole at the front, then the one at the back of the shoulder. Another pot held a thick, sticky salve, and she filled both sides deeply with it, then took several pieces of clean white cloth, folding them over and covering the wounds. She wound the woven strip of cloth tightly over both side and across his chest, then back around the shoulder, tying it off and tucking the ends into the bandage.

The slivovitz had hit hard, she thought, smiling a little as she saw the corner of his mouth lift up, his eyes trying to focus on her.

"What did you call it?"

"Can you stay awake a bit longer?" She rolled the cloth up again, and stood up, returning it to her saddle and getting the small pot from the other bag. She filled it with water from the stream, and carried it back to him, holding it as he drank a few mouthfuls.

His head dropped back against the top of the log, his eyes closing.

"It seems not."

* * *

Sam looked up at the towering façade in front of them, his brow creasing up as a memory filled him . "I've seen this before. This … was in an Indiana Jones movie."

He turned to Castiel. "Is this Petra?"

"No, that's further south. And a copy, by the way. This has been here much longer." The angel answered shortly.

The narrow gorge twisted and turned, and against the western walls, elaborate and detailed facades had been carved and hewn from the rock face, graceful columns and porticos, not quite Greek or Roman, or any period he could recognise, Sam thought as they walked along the sandy bottom of the gorge. Ruane and Rascha stared at the beautiful building fronts in awe.

Ahead of them, two men came from one of the doorways, turning to face them. Both were very tall, wearing the white robes ubiquitous in the desert, long hair drawn back from austere faces.

"My brothers." Castiel stopped several yards from them, inclining his head.

"Castiel." The Watcher on the right walked closer to them. The long hair was dark brown, his eyes a deep green, his expression tightly controlled as he looked at the angel.

"Araquiel." Castiel turned to look at the other Watcher. "Gadriel."

"You bring humans to our stronghold now, Castiel?" Gadriel stepped toward the angel, but he was looking at Sam, Rascha and Ruane as he spoke.

"It was necessary."

"We heard you were dead, Castiel." Araquiel looked at him. "That you died fighting demons, in the desert to the east."

Castiel frowned. "As you can see, an exaggerated account."

Araquiel's brows drew together, puzzlement in his eyes. "Perhaps."

"Why are you here, Castiel?" Gadriel asked coolly.

"What happened to Kokabiel, Armârôs and Samyaza?"

Araquiel shook his head. "Not here. Come, it is safer and more comfortable inside." He looked at the camels. "If you go along to the buildings at the end of the road, there is a place for your beasts."

He turned and walked back to the doorway, Gadriel hesitating for a moment then following. Castiel glanced back at his companions.

"Rascha, could you look after the animals? This will not take long."

Rascha shrugged and nodded, taking the lead ropes from Sam and Ruane, and leading the camels along the road.

Sam followed Castiel to the doorway, feeling Ruane close behind him. The fantastically carved portico stood over them, and he saw Castiel walk into the shadows beyond. He climbed the two steps to the doorway and stopped at the threshold.

Ruane stopped behind him, looking up at him quizzically. "What's the matter, Sam?"

"I don't know. I can't …," He looked up, into the interior at Castiel. "I can't go any further."

Castiel walked back toward him. "What do you mean?"

"I can't move." Sam looked down at the plain stone blocks that formed the outer foundations. He lifted his foot but couldn't move it past the supports of the door. He lifted his hands and felt them settle against something, not solid, but not giving way either, as if the air had thickened in front of him so much that he couldn't press through it.

"Demon." From the shadows of the interior, Gadriel spoke softly. "A demon may not cross over this threshold."

Castiel looked at the Watcher, frowning. "He is not a demon."

Araquiel came to stand beside the angel. "Perhaps not. But he cannot pass."

Sam stared at them. "I'm not a demon."

"Ruane, step through the doorway." Castiel looked at the young woman. A little fearfully, she stepped around Sam and crossed the threshold, walking easily through the doorway.

"There is something in you that the trap perceives as demonic," Gadriel said.

Castiel raised his eyes to Sam's, both realising the problem at the same time.

"Go with Rascha, Sam. I will be there shortly." Castiel looked at him intently, a warning in his eyes.

Sam looked away, nodding. Ruane turned around and walked back out. They walked down the steps and followed the other hunter down the road, neither looking back.

"Castiel." Araquiel looked down at the angel. "Do you know why this human you are travelling with cannot pass the door?"

"It's a long story, and I don't have that much time." Castiel shrugged. "He is not a demon."

The Watchers exchanged a glance. "Then come, and we will tell you what we know."


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

* * *

Birdsong, dappled sunlight moving slightly over his face, a rustle in the grass away to his left. Dean opened his eyes slowly, looking up at the thickly leafed canopy of the tree over him, the branches moving a little, shifting and breaking up the thin shafts of sunlight coming through them. He felt the throb of his pulse in the wound in his shoulder, but distantly, as if the wound was days old.

Levering himself onto his elbow, he looked around the small clearing. The horses were grazing to one side, hobbled. A small fire burned in a circle of stones close by, the iron pot hanging over it steaming slightly. Their gear had been neatly stacked at the other end of the log behind him, bows unstrung, resting on the top of the pile. The thick bearskin slid off him as he sat up, feeling the cool of the early morning air against his bare skin. He looked down at the dressing that covered his left shoulder. It seemed to be clean. He lifted the arm slightly, feeling the pain increase as the muscles contracted, but not dramatically so. Some kind of pain killer, he thought absently.

_Where was Alis?_

He looked around the clearing again. _Hunting, maybe, for food?_ He glanced at the pile of gear, and the two bows on top of it. _Without a bow? Unlikely_.

The sounds of the forest ceased, and he felt a prickle rise up the back of his neck. He rolled to one knee, pushing aside the bearskin as he got to his feet. His sword and knife were on the gear, and he reached for the sword, paling a little as he had to grip the scabbard with his left hand to draw the blade free.

He looked carefully along the path to the road, but there was nothing moving there. There was a faint splash on the other side of the clearing, and he could see the stream now, curving in a small arc around the northern side of the clearing. He moved fast and silently toward it, head turning as he noticed the small path that led through the thick growth of trees right along the edge of the bank, the clear print of a small, narrow boot in the smooth ground. He turned onto it, hearing the soft gurgle of the stream through the vegetation to his right.

He heard the splash again, more loudly this time, and slipped from tree to tree until he could see the next curve of the stream, the sparkle of the water through the thick foliage that ran along the bank.

He stopped next to a wide trunk when he saw her, standing mid-stream.

_Turn away_, he told himself. _She's okay, turn away_.

He didn't.

He couldn't.

She stood, knee-deep in the running stream, in profile to him, washing unselfconsciously in the freezing water. Lit up by the sunlight, her hair had darkened to mahogany, her skin was smooth and pearly, droplets gleaming as they ran down her body. He felt his fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword as she turned toward him, bending and lifting a handful of water to tip over herself. Heard his breath catch in his throat as he watched the water spill between full breasts, run down the flat stomach and over the curves of her thighs. Felt heat rise through him as he saw the vee of soft curls at their junction was the same deep red as her hair.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to turn away, hunching slightly as he leaned against the tree trunk. _What the fuck?_ The throb in the wound in his shoulder was much faster now, matching the acceleration of his pulse. _She's just another woman_, he thought, _you've seen one naked chick, you've seen 'em all_. It wasn't true and it didn't matter anyway. His arousal had been instant, and it wasn't completely physical, the sudden and fierce ache in his chest was something different, something he hadn't felt before, something he wasn't familiar with.

Behind him, he heard the splash of water again, and he pushed himself away from the trunk of the tree, walking back down the path, slowly at first, then more quickly, struggling with the desire to stop, to look back, to go back.

* * *

The interior of the cave had been smoothed and straightened and finished so that it resembled a grand room, the rock walls level and the floor paved with stone. Castiel followed Araquiel to the table that sat in the middle of the floor, and sat on the cushions that surrounded it slowly.

"Where are the others?"

"Researching mostly." Araquiel looked at him from the other side of the table as Gadriel settled himself at one end. "We've been trying to find out what happened since our brothers left."

"After murdering four of us," Gadriel added, anger showing in the pinched whiteness around his mouth.

Araquiel nodded. "A man came to the gorge, shortly after the Gate to the north was opened."

"He was looking for Kokabiel." Gadriel rested his elbows on the table, and Castiel saw that behind the anger, there was fear.

"He told us he was a believer, wanted to study with us, learn the wisdom of Heaven." Araquiel closed his eyes briefly as the memory rose. "He knew much about us already, but at the time we did not find that particularly suspicious. He took Kokabiel first, in the night, we think, because he would not have succeeded otherwise. We didn't see the change in our brother until several days later, just before they left. But Armârôs, we saw him change immediately."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "In what way?"

"He became angry, confused, disoriented as soon as the mage inserted the needle –"

"What needle?"

"We believe that it is how the mage controls them, Castiel. With needles of crystal and gold, inserted here," Gadriel pointed to the back of his head, where the skull joined the spine.

Araquiel nodded. "Belaziel found references, in African lore twelve thousand years old. There was a tribe, who had some kind of genetic anomaly, a stronger connection to the other planes, an ability to see beyond this world to others, for some reason."

"They may have come from another world, the records suggest that." Gadriel looked away.

Araquiel shook his head slightly, dismissing the speculation. "In any case, they were renowned and feared for their ability to work magic. And they constructed these … devices, to control people, demons and even angels." He looked at Castiel. "I didn't believe it, at first. Mortal, twisted soul, spirit, these are three very different creations and that one thing could work on all three seemed fantastic. But there is something in the symbiosis of the metal and stone and the frequencies of all three that creates a bridge into the mind – any mind."

"So the three are being controlled through the use of this … needle. If the needle is removed, is the control terminated?"

"Yes, we think so. The lore is oral and there may be some errors in the translations, but that seems to be the case."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Seems to be? That's thin hope."

"It's all the hope we have," Gadriel snapped at the angel.

"Did he say why he needed the fallen?" Castiel turned back to Araquiel.

"Kokabiel said that they were needed to find the true vessel, but it seems from what has transpired that he was primarily needed to form an army, an invincible army. Even after he fell, he had the demons, you know. They had to follow his commands."

Castiel nodded.

"The vessel is supposed to a man born of an angel and a demon." Araquiel's gaze slid sideways from Castiel to the other Watcher. "There is no reference anywhere that suggests that is possible."

"And to find the Corival, and destroy him," Gadriel added.

"What is the Corival?"

Gadriel's lip curled, his tone faintly derisive. "The defender, supposedly. The one who will protect the world against the rise of Lucifer."

Castiel turned and looked at Gadriel. The Watcher's golden-grey eyes looked back at him, his face expressionless.

"You don't believe in this, Gadriel?"

"Castiel, we have gone so far past knowing what to believe and what to disbelieve that my mind has stopped all speculation." The light gleamed on the Watcher's dark red hair as he bowed his head, staring down at his hands.

"There could be no mortal issue from an angel and a demon, Castiel. You know that as well as we do." Gadriel raised his head and looked at the angel. "And even if there could, how can such a being be so dual natured that Lucifer could claim the power of the souls of both Heaven and Hell?"

He shook his head. "And another mortal, claimed as the defender of the world? The champion who will fight the Lightbringer and destroy him entirely? A mortal? This is a tale for human children, Castiel, a tale for cold winter evenings and candied apples and spiced wine, not for the real world."

Castiel looked at Araquiel. "And you? Do you think this is a tale? Having seen three of your brothers, our brothers, captured and commanded by a sorcerer who knows magic that is older than any other? Having seen a Gate opened and hundreds of thousands of demons come forth to this plane and be locked into armies of men?"

Araquiel shook his head. "There are many things that have happened that I do not understand."

"Castiel, why is the human you are travelling with unable to cross our threshold?" Gadriel's voice was sharp, cutting over Araquiel's quiet answer.

"As a child, he was fed demon blood by Azazel," Castiel said bluntly.

"What?"

"Azazel?"

The Watchers' words ran over each other. Castiel looked from one to the other.

"Yes."

"This is even more ridiculous than the tales of a sorcerer who can control angels!" Gadriel snapped, rising to his feet. He looked at Araquiel. "I will return to the others, continue our research."

Araquiel inclined his head, and watched the red-haired man stride from the room. He turned back to Castiel.

"You are not from this time."

Castiel sighed. "No. How did you know?"

"There is something you must see. I don't know how it fits in with everything else … there are so many threads in this tapestry even the Moirai wouldn't be able to unravel them, but you must see it, Castiel."

He rose to his feet and Castiel got up slowly, following him from the room.

* * *

Sam sat on the step, his back supported by the wall of the animal barn behind him. The shadows of the gorge still lingered and the air was cool in its depths.

"Do you know why you couldn't cross the doorway, Sam?" Ruane looked at him. He turned to her, nodding.

It was inevitable that he would have to tell her about this, he thought, even though he'd kept that knowledge from himself for as long as possible. A fresh start was impossible. There were no fresh starts, no escaping from either the past or the future.

"When I was very young, a baby, a demon came into my room and dripped its blood into my mouth." He thought that the words, stark and unadorned, would make it easier to say, but it wasn't. He saw the horror at the back of her eyes. "The demon wanted to make an army, with special children to lead it, to take over the Earth. I was one of the special children."

"But you are not a demon?"

"No. I have … special powers, uh, magical powers, if I drink the blood of a demon."

She turned away, and he felt his chest constrict, his throat fill and begin to ache. When she turned back to him, he braced himself for what he knew she would say.

"Would doing this make you strong enough to defeat these armies? This sorcerer?"

The question took him by surprise. He looked at her, seeing the determination in her face, seeing it override the fear that was also there.

"No, I don't think so. And I can't do it any more. I won't let myself do it any more." He looked down. "I'm sorry, Ruane. There is a lot I should have told you before, before this …"

"Sam." She leaned closer to him, lifting her hand and cupping his cheek, turning his face to look at her. "There is much you don't know about me also. There is time, I hope, for us to discover those things about each other. You are afraid, that what you've said has changed the way I feel?"

"Yeah." He looked into her eyes, a darker grey here in the cool, blue shade.

"It hasn't. The person you have been, since you came to our village, that is still the same. And that person is …," she hesitated for a long moment, looking into his eyes, "is whom I have given my heart to."

Inside, somewhere deep, he felt something unfold that had been bound tightly for years. It was very slow, the unfolding, tentative and hesitant and stiff.

* * *

"I thought you would still be sleeping." Alis walked into the clearing, brows raised slightly as she saw Dean crouched by the fire.

He glanced at her, and back to the pot. "Must have had enough."

Her hair was still wet, plaited back from her face, dripping slightly as she stopped beside him, looking down.

"Do you have pain in your shoulder?"

"Uh, no, not really." He kept his gaze on the flames, adding another small branch to it. It was mostly true, he thought, he had more pain elsewhere.

"Hmmm." Alis turned away, going to the log and picking up her saddle. "Can you ride?"

He looked up. "Yeah."

"Good. We should get going." She walked to her mare and lifted the saddle onto her back, reaching under her belly for the girth.

"Yeah." He stood up and started to walk to the gear.

Alis looked over to him. "I will do the horses, if you could put out the fire."

It took a bare ten minutes to break the camp and load the horses. Dean used the log to mount without help, and they rode in silence back to the road, turning south to make sure no demon soldiers had made it through the closed pass.

The dust had settled, coating the area around the narrow defile in white. The rockfall started fifty feet into the pass, the dead Scythian horseman and his mount marking the edge. Alis looked down at him with little interest, other than to note that Dean had somehow managed a chest thrust into the soldier, one-handed, from the ground. The broken rock that filled the narrow road was close to sixty feet in height, the overhang that had been over the western wall gone. She slid from her mare and handed Dean her reins, moving to the side of the defile and climbing quickly through the undergrowth and trees up to the ridge line.

From the top, she could see where his explosives had broken the fault line of the overhang, sending it crashing down. The entire section between the two bends had been filled. She edged her way along the top, keeping her distance from the crumbly new edge, until she could see the southern end of the pass. The woods were similarly coated in white dust for a hundred or so yards, with no sign that anything had moved in the vicinity after the dust had settled. She thought that the whole party of demons must have been buried under the fall.

When she jumped down the last few feet back to the road, he looked at her questioningly.

"Right between the two bends, it is blocked. There were no tracks on the other side, no sign that any survived."

"Good." He handed her the reins of her mount and turned his horse as she mounted. "We'll have to hustle to get to the northern pass and back in time."

She glanced at him. "Hustle?"

"Move fast."

"Yes, but we will let my mother look at your shoulder before we head north."

"No. It'll take too long."

"What I've done, it is just to keep it clean, Dean. If you want to keep the full use of that arm, we need to stop." She pushed her mare into a trot, turning to look at him. "It won't take more than half a day. We won't lose much time."

He opened his mouth to argue and closed it again as the mare surged into a steady canter, and his gelding followed. The three time gait was more comfortable than trotting and he held his left arm against his chest, settling into it as he realised that she wasn't going to listen to him.

* * *

Castiel followed Araquiel out of the gorge and into the desert, squinting against the brilliance of the sunlight, reflecting from the sand into their faces.

"Araquiel, do you know what the prophecies were? Penemue said that Azazel discovered them, wrote them down."

"Yes, he did, nearly a hundred years before Lucifer took him down to the Pit."

The Watcher glanced at the angel beside him. "I know them, they are engraved on my mind like the words on a tombstone." He looked into the desert and kept walking.

"_And I saw, in the years of ice and flame and the trembling of the Earth, Heaven warred, angel against angel, divided by the creation of Man. _

_And I saw an angel made of light, a great and shining Morning Star, lead a thousand angels against his brother. And I saw that the Morning Star was defeated, shorn of his wings, and cast down from Heaven into the depths of the underworld, into a cage of ice, with all his followers. And I heard a Voice, beautiful and terrible, decree that his son would remain in the pits of fire and ice for a thousand years, punishment for his disobedience, for his pride._

_And I saw a Gate open in the mountainside, lit with fire and a light too unnatural to look upon, and from the gate and from the light came a cloud of darkness, pouring from the mountainside and reaching up and covering the stars in the sky, covering the moon and spreading across the firmament, a storm of black._

_And I saw, a man, wreathed in dark lightning, a man whose soul was as black as pitch, bind three heavenly children into a chalice of breathing fire, and call upon the Keepers of Destiny to change the path of the future. And I saw three Sisters change the path._

_And I saw, three men, who were more than men, take hold of the men of the horse, and capture them and bind them to their will, filling them with black smoke, until they were still, and blackness filled their eyes._

_And I saw, the end of the angel's punishment marked by a great celestial event. The Sun increased its brightness ten fold and there was a day without a night, and a night without a day, and the angel was released from his prison. On that day, the dragon returned. And I saw a mortal man, born of an angel and demon, who was his doorway._

_And I heard a voice say, in a land of fire and ice, under a midnight sun, when the Dragon is reborn, he shall have dominion over the earth for ten thousand years. All living creatures will be his vassals, and all power over Heaven and Earth shall be in his grasp._

_And I saw the Corival, a mortal man, battle in a cavern of fire with the sorcerer, and destroy him with a thunderbolt from his hand. He rose up and became a dragon himself, wielding a sword of blood that was forged in fires of Heaven and the sword struck down the Dragon and the Dragon was gone."_

Araquiel's voice fell silent, and they walked on, each lost in their own thoughts, eastward, their shadows stretching out before them.

They had crossed into a long and deep sand drift and left the gorge far behind when Castiel saw the first flashes of white in the soft sand. He stopped and looked at the bones half-buried there, their bleached white ends polished and gleaming. As they kept walking, more and more skeletons were visible, some with the huge wings of angels. Some had the ragged ends of bone protruding where the wings had been. It took almost an hour to reach the thing that Araquiel wanted him to see.

Castiel looked down at the bones in shock, the Watcher standing still behind him. The enormous wings had been spread out to either side, the long bones lying in their correct order, untouched by the scavengers of the desert, the faint scent of flowers and feathers still discernible close to the bleached skeleton. It was impossible, he thought. These bones had lain here for many seasons, many summers, many winters, the sands almost covering them, filling the ribcage and the hollow interior of the skull.

Kneeling, he put his hand over the forehead of the skull, though he already knew whose bones he was looking at. The sharp jolt that passed into him from the bone merely confirmed it.

The bones lying in the sand were his.

* * *

Sam looked up as Castiel walked into the cool interior of the cavern, the angel's eyes wide as they adjusted to the dimness after the bright sunshine outside.

"We must return, as quickly as we can."

"What happened? What did the Watchers tell you?" Sam got to his feet, walking to Castiel.

"They said that the sorcerer came here and tricked them, that he inserted magical devices into the three Watchers, and took control of their minds. It's possible if we can remove those devices, we can save them, stop this war before it starts."

It was possible, but he didn't hold out much hope for that to work. The urgency driving him had more to do with the tall, young man standing before him, and his brother far to the north. They were here because of what he'd done, and he was afraid for them.

He thought of the skeletons in the desert, his skeleton, lying among them. A battle between angels and the fallen. A hundred years before, Araquiel had told him. He had been in Mesopotamia then, in the previous line of destiny. Alive and watching humanity. There had been no fight with the fallen. Yet Araquiel remembered the battle. It had been why the Watchers had withdrawn to their hidden sanctuary. Withdrawn themselves from mankind for a while, until men's memory of the battle had faded, become a tale, become a myth.

Did it mean he was truly mortal now? Was this why he couldn't reach Heaven? The Watchers could not reach Heaven either. They spoke of interference, of being unable to see or to hear their brothers. Was that because the line had been altered? Or was it something the sorcerer was doing? Or was it something else entirely?

He didn't know. He didn't know what to make of the prophecies either. That the prophet had seen the war in Heaven seemed to give credence to the rest, but Lucifer's time was not now … or had the change in the lines of destiny changed that as well? He felt utterly lost, as he had when the realisation of the treachery in Heaven had broken his faith in his brethren, and when God's withdrawal had broken his faith in his Father. As he'd walked back to the gorge with the Watcher, he'd felt a sense of overwhelming urgency, to leave this place, to return to the mountains. That sense still filled him.

The Moirai had said that it was only the three of them who could defeat the sorcerer and destroy Lucifer. If it were up to the three of them, then it was best if they were together.

"Cas?" Sam watched the angel's face, the expressions chasing over it.

"We must go now." Castiel looked at Sam, at Ruane and Rascha. "I think we're in danger here."

Sam nodded, glad to leave this place that had shaken his belief in himself. "Alright"

* * *

They rode hard through the day, stopping only twice, to let the horses rest and eat, and for Alis to check the wound and change the dressing. By the time the last of the light had faded from the sky, they were close to Black Valley, a little over a days' ride from Deep Ice.

Alis had shot two plump pheasants, and the plucked and dressed birds were roasting slowly over the coals of the fire, the tantalising scents bringing saliva to his mouth as he leaned back against his saddle. On the other side of the fire, Alis was cleaning and repairing a stirrup leather, and he watched her through half-closed eyes, seeing a slight tension in her hands as she threaded the thin sinew through the holes in the leather.

"What's wrong?" The question came out without thought.

She looked up at him. "Nothing is wrong."

He looked away, chewing the edge of his lip. They had spoken more today than they had on the road south. He hadn't been able to bury the memory but he'd kept it out of his mind most of the day, unwilling to relive the feelings it brought. Unwilling to look at, or think about them at all.

"Why do you ask that?" Her voice was softer, and he looked back to her.

"Uh, you seemed worried about something," he offered vaguely, lifting his right shoulder in a slight shrug.

"No." She looked down at the leather in her hands. "Well, yes. A little."

He raised a brow at her as she looked up at him.

"The soldiers, the Scythians." She sighed and made a small, helpless gesture with one hand. "Their eyes were not … you know, like that first one we saw, all black … but they were empty, as if they were not really alive."

She put the leather aside, and drew her legs up, wrapping her arms around them. "My mother has travelled, you know, she has travelled through many, many lands. She used to tell me all sorts of tales of where she'd been, what she had seen. Sometimes she made things up, stories about things that couldn't be true. Other times she would tell me that some of the things were true. One of the stories was about a witch who could make the dead come back to life, but they weren't really alive, they were just bodies, walking around." She ducked her head, snorting a little. "That story gave me nightmares for weeks and my father forbade her to tell me anything like that again."

When she looked back up at him, the smile had gone. "Those soldiers were like that, Dean. Like dead bodies that were riding and firing and screaming when my arrows hit them, but with nothing in their eyes."

He nodded. He knew what she meant, had seen the dead like that, empty but animated.

"Possessions can look like that." He shifted against the saddle, looking at the fire. "The demon is inside all the time, but mostly you can't see it. Sometimes a person is strong enough to hold it, to regain control of their bodies, of themselves, but mostly the demons are too strong. And sometimes there doesn't seem to be anything in there. Just an emptiness."

"If they win, will the demons do that to all people? Make them into puppets, for their own amusement?"

He stared at the flames. "I don't know. I don't know what they'll do if they win."

"Can we stop them?" She stared at him, and across the fire, he could feel the answer she wanted from him. He didn't know if they could or not. He opened his mouth to give her the standard sugar-coated response, then stopped. She was a hunter, and he didn't want to lie anymore, not to her, not to anyone. Here, in this time, he had people who he could trust. People who could know what he knew and wouldn't back down or run from that.

He looked at her. He thought, no matter what he said to her, no matter how bad the news was, she wouldn't freeze and she wouldn't turn her back on it.

"I don't know." He straightened a little against the saddle. "I know that we can make it hard for them, I know that we can fight them."

He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face. "Cas and Sam will have more information for us. If you know what something is, you can kill it."

His eyes met hers across the firelight and she nodded, knowing that. He saw the fear dissolve in them, saw them harden with resolve, felt that resolve harden inside himself as well.


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

* * *

"_Sam." The man sitting beside looked at him with compassion. "My heart breaks for you. The weight on your shoulders, what you've done, what you still have to do. It is more than anyone could bear. If there was some other way ... but there isn't. I will never lie to you. I will never trick you. But you will say yes to me."_

_Sam stared at him, feeling his pulse beating fast against the base of his throat. "You're wrong."_

_"I'm not. I think I know you better than you know yourself."_

_"Why me?" The question had burned for so long in him. He knew the answer now, somewhere outside of this reality, outside of this memory._

_"Because it had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you." The dark angel smiled and he wasn't in the memory any longer, he was in a cool, dim cave, the light gleaming oddly from the smooth curves and polished surfaces, a cave made not of rock, but of ice._

Sam jerked into wakefulness, his heart thundering against his ribcage, his breath rasping in his throat, disoriented by the heat and brightness that surrounded him after the frozen darkness of the dream.

"_It always had to be you."_

"_A vessel born of an angel and a demon."_

"_A demon may not cross over this threshold."_

"_You hold the bloodline of two angels."_

_Angel and demon. The one true vessel. It always had to be you. Angel and demon and no escape from the past, no escape from the future, it always had to be you. Had to be you. You._

The thoughts swirled through his mind, faster and faster, a whirlwind of pieces that were connecting together as he closed his eyes tightly, praying that it was all wrong, it wasn't him, not again, not in this place, this time.

He rolled to his side, stumbling and running from the shelter, making it to the thorn tree before his mouth opened and his stomach heaved and he dropped to his knees, convulsively vomiting until nothing else could come up but a little bile.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and started violently, twisting away and looking up.

Castiel looked down at him, a deep sadness filling the dark blue eyes, understanding and compassion in his face.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"You knew?"

"I realised, I came to realise after we left the Watchers. The Moirai said we were all connected to Lucifer, I should have seen it then, but I kept thinking of the prophecy in literal terms."

"They're hunting for me, then, aren't they?" Sam rolled onto his knees, getting to his feet. "The armies, the demons."

"Yes."

"Can I run? Can I hide?" He looked down at the ground, wondering at the best course, the course that would protect the people who were innocently standing between him and the fallen angel.

"I don't think so." Castiel looked around them. "The world is big, but not that big. They will find you, eventually."

"Can I lead them away from … everyone, make them leave the mountains?" He looked at the angel. "I could go on my own, just head, uh, north and east." Into the wilderness where there would be no innocent bystanders, no villages to burn, no friends to kill.

"Possibly." Castiel saw the shape of his thoughts and frowned. "It would delay their finding you for a period of time." He thought of what Gadriel about the defender. "But I do not think it would protect the people of the mountains, or the south. They are looking for someone else as well."

Sam's brow creased. "Who?"

"I don't know, exactly. Gadriel said that they were looking for the Corival."

"Challenger." Sam's memory provided the definition of the word instantly, though he couldn't remember hearing it before. "A challenger to Lucifer?"

"That seemed to be the gist of it." Castiel looked up at him. "A mortal who was supposed to defend the world."

"What do we do, Cas?"

"Go home. Prepare our defences, try and free the Watchers from the sorcerer." The angel shrugged.

* * *

"The wound is clean." Valenis looked down. "It will be several weeks before you have much use of the arm again, Dean."

He nodded. It had taken a couple of months before he'd been able to use the shoulder again after he'd taken a bullet through it. At least it was always the left shoulder, he thought.

Valenis packed the wound with a pungent paste, her movements fast and deft, before dressing it again. She glanced at Alis approvingly as she fastened the dressing in place. "You did well to keep it so clean."

Alis smiled slightly.

"Geny needs a healer. Katsha was killed by a bear four weeks ago." Valenis looked at her daughter. "You will stay there until he can send an apprentice here."

Alis' smiled disappeared. "We have to check the northern pass –"

Valenis shook her head. "Lev will ride on with Dean. You will go with them to the Black River ford. And stay with Geny."

Her voice was flat, the command final. Alis looked away, her lips compressing tightly, as she walked out of the room.

Valenis looked at Dean. "Lev is ready." She handed him the small clay pot of paste that she'd packed his wound with. "Take this, change the dressing once a day, fill the wound with it. It will speed the healing."

He took the pot and nodded.

"Do you wish to be released from your promise to Kiya, Dean?"

His head snapped up to look at her, mouth opening slightly in surprise.

Valenis smiled at his expression. "Whatever is between you and Alis, it is not possible to give yourself to two people at the same time." She turned away, replacing the medicines in the soft cloth bag she carried. "Elbek asked about Kiya. He seems sure."

He stood up slowly, uncertain of what to say. He couldn't stay with Kiya, could hardly look the girl in the face now, but the responsibility that was as much a part of him as his bones or his blood protested, he'd made a promise. He had to keep it. Valenis glanced at him, and nodded, as if he'd spoken.

"Some promises are better broken. I will tell her that she is free to be with Elbek." She gathered up the blood-soiled cloths and turned away, stopping after a couple of steps to look back at him.

"You do not know what you want, Dean. Alis doesn't either, but for different reasons." She shrugged slightly. "She is my daughter and I do not want to see her get hurt, but neither do I want to see her hurt others, and she has, and will continue to do so until she understands the fear in herself."

She walked out of the room, leaving him standing there.

* * *

Alis and Lev were waiting for him, as he came down the track from the keep. He slowed as he approached, seeing Alis stiff and tense, holding his horse and hers, looking away from Lev rigidly. Lev stood several feet away, looking in a different direction, his knuckles white under the skin as he held the reins of his horse tightly.

_This'll be fun_, he thought, unable to imagine what had passed between the two of them. "Ready?"

Alis nodded, leading his horse to the low wall that surrounded the well. He mounted awkwardly from it, unable to use his left arm which was the usual one to take the weight. He took the reins as she passed them to him, and watched her swing up easily onto her mare. Behind them Lev mounted, and followed them slowly out of the gates.

They rode north, climbing steadily through the thick forest. It would take them a day and a half to reach the Black River, and another two to the northern pass, _Vol'f Rot_, the Wolf's Mouth, Vasiliĭ had called it. He'd told the leader about the Scythian attack, and the successful closing of the southern pass. He wasn't sure if it had reassured Vasiliĭ or worried him more. They had counted on at least another month before the armies of the Watchers would be that close to them.

They should be back in time to help with the harvest, he thought. For the last week, thunder had been muttering around the mountains, but so far the storms had kept to the lower ranges, to the south and west of them. The harvest was essential, not only for supplies for the winter, but in the event that the army did eventually get through and held them in siege, there had to be full store rooms, and gleaned fields.

At dusk, they stopped, choosing a clear meadow above the river for their camp. One-handed, there was little Dean could do to be useful. He leaned back against his saddle, closing his eyes as the other two moved around, settling the horses, gathering wood for the fire, cleaning and dressing the game taken through the day for the pot. Alis and Lev worked in silence, and Dean shifted against the curve of the saddle, finding a more comfortable place for his shoulder, and drifting off to sleep.

He woke an hour later, at the brush of fingertips over his hand, to find Alis crouched beside him, a bowl with roasted meat, some kind of vegetable and nut paste and flatbread in it.

He blinked and took the bowl, wriggling upward. "Thanks"

She nodded and got up, moving back to the fire to get herself food, then out to the edge of the fire's circle of light, to sit and eat.

Dean glanced to his right and saw Lev drop his gaze, getting up and going to the fire for a bowl for himself. He didn't think he'd imagined the dark look he'd been getting from the younger, fair hunter.

* * *

Castiel and Rascha stood along the high edge of the wadi, staring into the east. Sam climbed up and looked out, shading his eyes with his hand as he tried to make out what the long dark line along the flat horizon was.

"What is it?" He turned to Rascha finally.

"Sandstorm."

"Do we have time to find a place to shelter?"

"Maybe." Rascha looked at Castiel. "We need rock."

The angel nodded, turning and moving down the loose embankment. "Two miles back, there was a rocky valley, running alongside the wadi."

They packed the camp quickly, unable to keep from glancing eastwards every few minutes. The dark line had become a dark wall, in the short time it took them to be ready to move. Rascha shook his head, harrying the camels along their backtrail, trying to remember how extensive the rock had been when they'd passed through the area.

They reached the outcroppings, and dragged the camels around in a semi-circle, close by the highest point of the rocky wall that rose from the gravel. Wrapping themselves in the shelter cloth, they tucked back against the animals as the curving wall of sand approached, tightly woven material wrapped around their heads and mouths, leaving only the thinnest slits for their eyes, the water bags pulled underneath the coverings.

The wind's roar had been steadily increasing as the storm got closer, and the wall of sand towered into the sky above them, the overhanging first line of the cloud overtaking them as they finished the crude shelter. When the main body of the storm hit them, less than fifteen minutes later, Sam realised why they'd needed shelter. The wind speeds were gusting over a hundred miles per hour, the coarse sand scouring everything in its path, reducing visibility to zero, turning the day into night. The noise of the wind rose to an unbearably high shriek as the storm moved over them, moaning and whistling around the rocks at ground level, the world reduced to darkness, noise and the thick choking dust that filled the air, filled their nostrils, and ears, caked their eyelids together and infiltrated through the layers of cloth into their mouths and throats.

Sam sat next to Ruane, both of them with their legs drawn up, arms crossed over them, heads lowered into them.

Behind Sam's closed lids, he saw the storm, from a different perspective, from high above it, on a mountain peak to the north, watching the vast cloud rolling fast across the desert. He looked around and saw a man standing next to him, taller than he, broad-shouldered and narrow hipped, dressed in tanned leather, a long hauberk of bright silver links over the shirt and leggings, and a finely woven tabard of white silk over that, embroidered with a stylised picture of a great tree on the front. His long, golden blonde hair swirled around his head in the updraughts from the heat of the plains below. The man's eyes were amber, like a wolf's, long and narrow. Sam stared into them as he realised he'd heard about this man before, from a boy. The memory returned and his eyes widened suddenly as the man smiled at him, leaning forward, his hand rising toward Sam's face, the ring on the forefinger touching his forehead, burning there for a second.

Sam jerked back, his hand lifting to touch the place where the ring had burned him, but feeling nothing but smooth skin there. He couldn't see anything, everything around him was black. A dream? A warning? He tucked his head back into his arms and shivered.

Deep within the storm a dozen men ran, oblivious to the sand and dust, the wind and noise, like a pack of wolves on the scent of their prey, their eyes open wide, and black from corner to corner.

* * *

Dean drew rein as Alis stopped at the ford. Behind him, he heard Lev's horse snort. Alis turned to look at him.

"I go this way." She looked up the trail to the north. "You will find the Wolf's Mouth another two days along this trail."

He nodded, not knowing what to say to her. He turned his head as Lev pushed his horse up beside them, the hunter looking at her, also without speaking.

She turned her horse and crossed the shallow ford, the water splashing up from the mare's hooves.

"Come on." Lev pushed his horse forward, taking point, and Dean turned to follow him, glancing back once and watching the rump of her horse disappear up the narrow path, between the thick vegetation of the forest.

The mountains were steeper, the trail climbing around the contours of each peak, dropping into the saddles between them. The forest was now birch and pine, and they could see the year-round snow lying on the rocky peaks, still far above, the moving air bringing their chill down to them.

Lev rode at a steady pace, two or three lengths ahead, silent for most of the time. Dean was happy to follow behind, not having to make conversation was a bonus. He looked at the trail they were riding and wondered how easy it would be to bring thousands of mounted soldiers through here, especially if it were snowing. From time to time the trail edged drops of several hundred feet, narrowing to a width that would barely accommodate two horses abreast, let alone a wagon.

Twice he saw tracks, paralleling the trail, shapeless, rudimentary tracks that reminded him a little of the teddy bear paw prints they'd seen in Concrete. He was reasonably sure there wasn't a giant teddy bear roaming these mountains at this time, but he couldn't think what might have made them.

"Lev?"

The hunter drew rein and waited.

"What made these tracks?" Dean looked down at them. Lev glanced at them.

"Troll. They are not recent, maybe three or four days old." Lev pointed up the slope to the grey rock above them. "It will have a lair somewhere up there. It won't bother us, though, unless we go to hunt it, or stay here until dark."

"Huh." He looked down at the tracks again. "So, uh, what are trolls?"

Lev raised an eyebrow. "You've never seen a troll?"

"No. We don't have them where we're from."

"Oh. They're something like a cross between a giant and an ogre, but they're smaller."

_Wow,_ he thought dryly,_ that certainly gave him a good idea_. "An ogre?"

"You don't have ogres either?"

"Uh, no. Haven't really seen any giants at home either." _Other than Sam_.

"Well, imagine Torgva, only thirty feet tall." Lev grinned at him. "That's a giant."

The mental image was vivid and Dean shook his head. "And an ogre?"

"About half that height, twice the weight, much uglier."

Dean snorted. "Thanks."

Lev shrugged and pushed his horse forward again. From the way the hunter picked up the pace, Dean guessed that he hadn't been kidding about being in a troll's territory after darkness fell.

They were another ten miles along the trail when the sun disappeared behind the high peaks of the west. Lev bypassed several possible camp sites, making Dean wonder what he was looking for. The fair-haired hunter stopped when he saw the cave, dismounting and going into it cautiously. He nodded when he came a few minutes later.

"We'll camp here for the night."

"You expecting rain?" Dean looked up at the clear sky, and back to the hunter.

"No, we're not that far from the vampyre's nest and I'd rather have stone over my head and a fire at the doorway for the night, that's all."

Dean nodded and slid off his horse. The cave was big inside, with signs that other travellers had used it, in the neat circle of stones, piles of ash inside, the slightly vaulted roof above covered in black soot. They unloaded the horses and unsaddled them, hobbling them loosely to graze outside. Lev walked into the forest to collect enough firewood to see them through the night, and Dean filled the iron pot with water from a small spring on the path between the cave and the road.

They ate early, with the need to split watches, and push up the mountains as fast as possible.

"I've seen you looking at Alis, and wish to give you a word of warning," Lev said, flicking a glance at the older man as they leaned back against the saddles, their bedrolls to either side but both behind the fire, near the back of the cave.

Dean looked over at him, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

"She's not what she seems to be, Dean." Lev looked down at the knife in his hands, lifting the blade from the stone, tilting the edge to the firelight.

"Yeah?" Dean looked at the fire. "She lied to you?"

"Yes. No. Not exactly." Lev frowned. "One day she was all over me. The next, I did not exist."

Dean glanced at him. "Maybe she changed her mind. Women do that, you know. A lot."

"I should have seen it. Elbek warned me." Lev straightened up, putting the knife back into its sheath, the stone back into his saddle bag. "She stays with no one. Goes from one man to another."

"That's not against the rules, is it?"

"No. But it's not usual, most women have more … pride." Lev's eyes met Dean's, and he could see that despite the man's words, he was still feeling a lot of pain. "Elbek said she changed. I've only been with Deep Ice a little over a year, so I didn't see her before she was to be married. But he knew her before and he said she was different now."

"She was married?"

Lev shook his head. "No. There was a ... something happened. The man ran off the night before. I don't know the details. Only what Elbek said, that she was different before, and after, she didn't care anymore."

Dean thought of Valenis' warning to him, about her daughter. That made more sense now, at least. He rubbed his face tiredly. It didn't matter. Alis was at another village, and given their interactions in the recent past, it seemed unlikely to him that she was even remotely interested, no matter what Valenis might have meant with her vague insinuations. That didn't help much with his feelings, but he thought those would go, after some time, if he didn't look at them.

Lev had the first watch, and he slid down along his bedroll, turning half onto his right side, his left arm tucked against his chest to remind him not to turn that way. He closed his eyes.

"Wake me when it's my watch, Lev."

* * *

The storm raged over them. Sam could hear the occasional crack of lightning, and once smelled the discharge strongly, knowing that the bolt had hit somewhere close to them. He couldn't feel Ruane beside him, couldn't hear anything but the shrieking of the wind. He could feel the sand hitting him, pouring over him, the weight increasing as time went on. He remembered reading an account of an army, over fifty thousand Persian soldiers, who'd been buried in a Saharan sandstorm in 525 BC and never found. The thought was not reassuring and he pushed it away hurriedly.

At first, the touch felt like a heavy stream of sand on his arms, then the fingers closed tightly around his shoulders, above his elbows and around his wrists and he felt himself being dragged forward. He lifted his head, eyes slitted against the grit and dust, unable to see anything in front of him, he could feel the dust and sand over his lips, felt it spill into his mouth as he opened it, forcing him to spit it out, and close his mouth tightly again, then he was out of the shelter, the wind and sand and noise were scouring him, as he felt bodies close around him.

Under the wailing of the wind he heard something low, like laughter, close by his ear. He was lifted, more hands tightening around his ankles and knees, a thick arm wrapping around his waist. He felt the wind change, the force of it hitting him directly in the face at first, then moving around to his right.

They were moving north.

* * *

The storm died away three hours later, and the cessation of the noise woke Ruane. She shifted under the shelter cloth, hearing the soft hiss of the sand as it cascaded away and lifted her head. It was dark, but quiet and she reached out for Sam, to wake him. Her hand moved around next to her, finding nothing, and she opened her eyes, brushing the layers of dirt and dust from her lashes and lids, pulling the cloth from her nose and mouth, and lifting it to rub over her face. Still it was dark under the cloth and still she couldn't feel or hear Sam near her. She sat up abruptly, her heart accelerating, heaving against the weight of sand that lay over the cloth, pushing it back from her head.

The rocks and the camels were half-buried, the shelter cloth covering Rascha and Castiel was covered in sand, looking like a soft, curving dune. Sam wasn't next to her, wasn't nearby.

"Castiel, Rascha." She rolled onto her knees, tugging at their shelter, sweeping the sand covering it away with her hands. From beneath she could see them moving, and the first of her fears, that she'd been left here alone, vanished.

"Cas? Sam's gone, I can't find Sam."

The shelter cloth heaved back suddenly and the angel's dirt encrusted face, coverings pulled down, looked at her.

"What?"

It took ten minutes to clear the sand completely away from where they'd sat, rolling up the shelter cloths and clear the sand from the camels. In every direction, the gravel plains were smooth and featureless, the sand dumped by the storm virgin and trackless. Sam was gone. They had no idea how it had been done in the middle of the storm. But Castiel had a good idea of who had done it.

He looked at Rascha and Ruane. "Get the camels ready. We're going now."


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

* * *

Sam woke as he hit the ground. He couldn't open his eyes, the sand and dust had hardened and felt as if his face was lightly encrusted in concrete. He rolled onto his side, brushing ineffectually at the dirt.

The water hit him full in the face, dousing his head and shoulders, chest and legs. He shook his head, wiping his hands down his face, feeling the grit turn to sludge as the second load of water slapped into him, followed by laughter.

"Get him up." The voice was ahead of him, a mellifluous tenor voice, out of place and shocking in the midst of the deeper, rougher desert voices he could hear around him. He wiped again at his eyes as hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet.

"Bring a bowl, let him wash."

Sam peered through his mud-covered lashes and dripping hair at the owner of the voice. The man was tall, dressed in the clothing of the desert nomad, the long white _tob_ covered by a sleeveless coat, his _kufiyya_ held by a four strand _iqual_. His eyes, unbearably vivid in the darkly tanned face, were pale grey, almost silver in the strong sunlight.

One of the Watchers, Sam thought. Not Kokabiel, whom he'd met in the dream that had branded him for the demons. Either Armârôs or Samyaza. He turned his head as one of the soldiers brought a wide mouthed beaten copper bowl, filled with water and set it in front of him. He couldn't have cared less about washing, but had the feeling that it was important to the Watcher in front of him, and possibly counted for something other than cleanliness in their customs. He knelt, lifting handfuls of water and washing his face, then his hands, until the bowl was filled with sediment, the water muddy, and his face felt reasonably clean.

"Thank you."

The Watcher's mouth curved into a humourless one-sided smile. "Courtesy. Not often found in your species. I'm impressed."

Sam looked down. "Perhaps you know less of my species than you imagine."

The smile grew broader. "Diplomatic yet insulting. This might be less tedious than I thought."

He turned to the soldiers surrounding them and Sam lifted his gaze, counting rapidly the number of men he could see.

"Get the horses, we have a long way to go." The Watcher turned back to Sam. "We will be taking a wandering route to my master. Don't want to get too close to those who might feel compelled to save you, now that we have you."

Sam wondered which way was the long way. If the destination was somewhere above the Arctic circle, there were a few possible routes. He turned as a soldier came up beside him, gesturing for him to mount the horse he held. He swung into the saddle, and two soldiers gripped his hands, holding them tightly as a third locked shackles around his wrists, the chain that ran between them also running through a hole in the bow of the saddle. His ankles were chained and locked to the stirrups. He hoped his mount was sure footed.

* * *

"There it is." Lev halted his horse and pointed up ahead of them. The pass was at least another few miles away, but they could see it clearly from the ridge.

_Well_, Dean thought, _now I know why they call it the Wolf's Mouth_.

The pass was not a ravine or a cut. It was a tunnel. Through the open slit, he could see the blue of the summer sky behind it. Theoretically, a tunnel should be easier to bring down that a straight cut, but looking at it, he wondered.

"We'll be there in an hour." Lev looked back at him, and he nodded, pressing his legs against his horse's sides as the hunter moved forward.

The road dipped sharply downward as they descended the mountain to a broad saddle, then began to climb again, switching up the sides of the steeper peak. Looking at the hairpin bends, he couldn't imagine a wagon getting around them too easily. At least not a big one, he amended hastily as he saw a small farmer's wagon coming down toward them, the thick legged horse pulling it picking its way carefully along the loose gravel surface.

He and Lev drew their horses off to the side and waited for the farmer to pass them before resuming their climb. _Worse than going down to Tahoe_, he thought absently.

He looked down as the horses came over the last steep hump, the change in the sound of their hoofbeats showing they were travelling now over rock. In front of them, the double peak rose sheer, like a great wall, sweeping to either side of the ridge. Dean's gaze ran along that wall in first one direction, then the other. The brightly coloured summer lichens seemed to be the only vegetation capable of clinging to the smooth planes of upthrust bedrock that formed it.

No one is climbing over that without ropes and pitons and some serious mountaineering skills, he thought, with a certain satisfaction.

"Are there other villages beyond the tunnel?" he asked Lev.

"No, the road twists down to the east, and the ground is very broken, rocky. This is used by the people of the eastern foothills, do to some trading or visit family, and by those who are travelling north into the empty lands."

He nodded, looking up at the tunnel. It was tall, possibly eighty feet in height, but narrow, no more than twenty or thirty feet wide. The two planes of rock had sheared and split, forced apart, leaving the gap. From the edges of the roof of the tunnel, long stalactites that had given the tunnel it's name were growing down, water dripping slowly from their ends. He looked up at them, brow creasing as he realised the top of the tunnel was a different rock to the sides. The floor of the tunnel was gravel and soil, rainfall or snow melt washing sediment along each season, depositing it until the rock underneath had been covered.

They rode inside, and the thick soil covering muffled the horse's hooves, the high roof above them returning no echoes at all. Dean looked at the smooth walls, brows drawing together as he realised that there were virtually no crevices in which to place the explosives, and without a stronger blast than the black powder could give him, just piling them up inside was not going to do anything other than clean out any moveable soil from the tunnel. From the high roof of the tunnel, he could see the stalactites that were growing slowly down, even in here. Somewhere up there was limestone, a sedimentary deposit from before the ice age? He chewed slightly on the corner of his lip as they emerged into the blue shadows on the other side.

Here the ground fell away from them again, broken and covered here and there with the scree that was left behind after the ice retreated. Not a glacier, not up here, he thought, eyes widening as he realised that this must be the southern most point on the mountains for the last ice cap. He looked down, seeing the sunken valleys, the signs of the enormous weight of the ice. No wonder the peaks behind them were so young and high, they were probably forced up by that weight. The peaks that lay north were more rounded as well, although a few stood clear, jagged against the brilliant blue sky. To the east, he could see the foothills, and dry, brown plains, stretching out to another range. To the west, tightly forested mountains that seemed to drop down to a glittering dark plain. Not a plain, he thought. A sea. Sam would know its name, but it looked huge.

He twisted in the saddle and looked up the peaks behind him. From this side, the sheer walls were almost vertical, and the depth of the rock over the tunnel was obvious. A limestone bridge, he thought, between the two peaks.

Limestone was good. It was softer than igneous rock, and judging from the amount of water that was dripping into the tunnel below, it was riddled with holes already. The only question was, how was he going to get up there?

* * *

"I don't understand, Castiel, how could he have been taken in the middle of that storm?" Ruane walked beside the angel, leading her camel, fear and urgency filling her.

Castiel glanced at her. "I don't know, Ruane. I don't know how they found him, or how they took him. I only know we have to get back to the mountains, because he will be taken far to the north, and we must get him back before it is too late."

It wasn't entirely the truth. He hadn't considered that Kokabiel could have reached this far to mark a victim. They had known the Watcher was leading the army of the south. Had he felt them, as they'd passed through the country to the west of the army? He shrugged inwardly. It was not a question he would get an answer to.

The Watcher could not fly or instantaneously travel. He had only the means of a mortal to move around. Which meant that one of the others must have been sent after them. Penemue had seen the northern army through the eyes of his brother. It could have been Armârôs or Samyaza. Castiel thought it was likely that Armârôs was leading the army to the north. He was more battle-trained than Samyaza, more strategically inclined.

Which way would Samyaza take Sam? Not through the Caucasus. Having found the vessel they would not risk it by passing close to people, not knowing who the Corival was or where he might be. That left two likely routes, both adding a thousand miles to the journey. To the east, past the Caspian Sea and into the empty lands of Russia. Or west, around the Mediterranean, or possibly the Black Sea, and northwards from there.

Those circuitous routes would give them enough time to get back to the mountains. Dean would come, he knew. Even with the armies of darkness beating at the village gates, he would not be able to leave the search for his brother to anyone else. He wondered if they could possibly get ahead of Samyaza before he reached the north, then dismissed the thought. It was impossible to tell. Particularly without knowing the precise destination. Vasiliĭ said that his mother had lived in the taiga, on the edge of the northern sea. And the sorcerer had then lived within a hundred miles to the west. He thought Finland might be where the castle of mists was located. And they had no choice but start with that. He thought there were two possibilities for the 'land of fire and ice' in the north, but as to which it was … there was no answer for that.

Ahead of them, the gravel plains stretched out under the starlight, and Rascha walked north and east steadily, leading the two camels. They would need horses when they reached Halab, Castiel thought distractedly. Fast ones, for by the time they reached the lower Caucasus it would already be autumn.

* * *

Sam swayed in the saddle, his eyelids dropping shut, then fluttering open as the horse under him climbed over the rocks. They had been riding for three days, changing mounts every six hours, heading due north into the mountains of Turkey. He visualised their route, and had realised that once they reached the Black Sea, they would probably head west. It would add another thousand miles on to the journey, to go around the sea. He hoped that would give Castiel, and whatever reinforcements the angel could get, enough time to catch up.

The Watcher, Samyaza, rode at the head of the loose column, the demon-possessed Scythian horsemen riding two or three abreast in ranks behind him, Sam in the middle of the line, with guards to either side. He wondered if he could get close enough to the fallen angel to withdraw the crystal needle. The way they were moving now, it was unlikely. But later on, he might get an opportunity.

His father had trained them to see openings, to make them if need be, because hunting was unpredictable and plans often failed mid-way through. He thought that he would be ready, if an opportunity presented itself. If he wasn't chained to the saddle the whole way. If he could get past the guards who didn't seem to sleep.

Dean would come after him, he knew. No matter where they took him, or how far it was. His brother's ability to come up with unlikely solutions to problems reassured him. He wasn't so great if you gave him time and resources to think of a strategy, but at improvisations in the heat of action, Sam thought, his brother had no equal. If Dean could find him, if he knew where to look.

He shook his head. Castiel knew that the sorcerer was somewhere near the Arctic Circle. A land of fire and ice, under a midnight sun, the prophecy said. The phrase nagged at him. He'd heard it before, but he couldn't remember where. He wondered how strong destiny really was. Escaping wasn't much of an option if it strengthened his enemies through some odd twist of fate. And if, as the grand finale, he was supposed to destroy Lucifer, then getting to him was at least a part of that goal.

Without the need to be strong, in front of his brother, in front of Ruane or Castiel, he could admit that the thought of the devil was scaring the utter crap out of him. He'd been possessed. That crawling sensation through his mind, his memories and emotions and thoughts, reaching into his cells to control his body, it still gave him nightmares. How much worse would Lucifer be? Would he even be himself again? Meg's possession had been a rape of his mind, his body, of his soul. She had enjoyed his pain. Had enjoyed holding up the worst things he thought of himself and raking them over him, drinking his anguish like champagne. Lucifer … the angel would rip him to shreds, he knew. Because that was what he did, hater of humanity, filled with rage that had festered for a thousand years. He shivered and locked the thoughts away again.

They crested the peak of the ridge and he looked tiredly down. To the north he could see more mountains, a long range stretching across the horizon. Below them lay forest and plain and lakes, spread out like a relief map. He tried to memorise the features as they descended.

* * *

Lev looked thoughtfully up the slope. "I could climb up there."

Dean glanced at him, wondering if that were an honest assessment or a young man's bravado. "Which side would be easier? South or north?"

"South, I think, this side is in shadow, too easy to miss ice in the folds of the rock."

The answer brought a reluctant one-sided smile to Dean's face. Honest assessment, then. "Let's have a look."

He turned his horse and they rode back through the tunnel, glancing skyward as they emerged on the other side. Another few hours to dusk. It was enough time to fool around a little here. Dean slid off his horse, tying it and walking to the base of the slope. There were small footholds.

_You wouldn't want to be carrying anything_, he thought, but that was okay, once someone was up there, they could use a rope to lift the casings up. He glanced at the young hunter who was staring at the slope on the other side of the tunnel. Could he teach him enough about placing the explosive, about running the fuses and lighting them, and getting the hell out of the way quickly enough so that he wasn't killed? Or the entire effort wasted because the right locations hadn't been chosen.

He looked down at his shoulder in annoyance. He wasn't crazy about heights, but the whole thing could have been done, to his own satisfaction, in less than half a day if he had the full use of his arm.

_Yeah, well you don't_, he snapped at himself, _so quit thinking about it, and think about teaching this kid what he needs to know._

He turned around and saw that Lev had already started to climb. The hunter's boots lay at the foot of the wall, and he was using his fingers and toes to find the tiny notches and cracks in the rockface, going up at a fairly good rate too.

He wasn't all that good at delegating. He knew that. He didn't like to give someone a job – especially not a dirty, dangerous job – that he could do himself. Except this time he couldn't. The casings would be packed. He'd do the fuse lines and wrap them, tell Lev to cut them enough to give him at least five minutes escape time. The burn rate was around forty seconds per foot, and it had been consistent across the last two dozen tests. He looked down the length of the tunnel. If he could actually find sink holes in the limestone, then ten of the casings, either consecutive or simultaneous, would break up the soft rock sufficiently.

Kokabiel would be coming up from the south, hurrying his army now, because summer was almost done. They would hit the southern pass and have to either clear it, or climb over it. If they stopped to clear it, even with the manpower he had available, it would be enough of a delay for the weather to take care of keeping them pinned down.

This side would be even easier. Once the tunnel was closed, the only way around was down and east, taking the long way along the lower mountain roads. A few scouts might get over here, but not the main body. Vasiliĭ said there were no passes to the east of the villages, only the northern and southern routes. So, like Mika, if they wanted to cross the mountains, they'd have to lead their mounts over the peaks. Judging from Mika's condition when he'd reached the village, the army wouldn't be in much shape to fight if they came that way.

His eyes narrowed as he stared down the tunnel, thinking of where the other army, the northern one, could be. Smaller army, they would be moving faster. He wanted to eyeball them, at least once, get a sense of them. It wasn't possible now, but soon. Soon he would come back here, and go for a look.

"Dean!" Lev's shout brought his attention back and he looked up. Lev stood on the edge of the bridge covering the tunnel, waving down at him. He lifted his hand, then cupped it around his mouth.

"What's it look like up there?"

Lev turned away from the edge, disappearing for several minutes. _Don't fall into a damned hole_, Dean thought edgily. _I can't get up there to rescue you_. He waited impatiently for the hunter to reappear, exhaling loudly when he saw the glint of the sunlight from the fair hair.

"I'm coming down."

Dean nodded, watching the descent uncomfortably. It took the hunter a lot longer to get down, but he'd been right about being able to climb.

"There are lots of holes up there, the ground fallen into itself." Lev took the water skin from Dean and drank deeply. The ground is boggy, wet a few feet under the top, will that matter?"

_Not if I make cannon fuse for the casings, there should be enough time_, Dean thought. "No, I don't think so."

"We should go now." Lev flicked a glance at the sky. "We're too easy to see here."

They untied the horses, and mounted, Dean wincing as the unthinking action pulled at the wound his shoulder. Eight more weeks, at least, he thought. He would talk to Torgva about some plate armour for his chest and shoulders, it couldn't weigh more than the chainmail.

* * *

The lights in the distance were like a mirage, Castiel thought. Dancing over the horizon, too bright for a campfire, but no city or town was built there. He glanced at Rascha who shook his head.

It would be safer to go around, but it would take longer. The entire desert couldn't be full of their enemies. Especially since Sam was gone, the Watcher who'd taken him would be moving fast, north, not stopping to camp and light up the desert night.

"We'll go straight," he said to Rascha. The hunter nodded and started walking again, clicking to the camels to pick up their pace.

Ruane walked along behind them, drawing her cloak around her. It was as cold at night here as it was at home, the sharp east wind piercing her clothing easily. The sense of urgency still beat in her blood, but she was no longer living on her nerves, jumping at shadows and waking with tears on her face. She took strength from Castiel, the angel's stoicism and practicality in the face of any situation was like her father, she thought. Deep Ice's leader had passion and imagination and a vast love but they were hidden, most of the time, tempered by the need for careful judgement, for understanding every implication of every decision made.

Sam, too, was like that, although she sensed a recklessness in him that seemed to contradict it. He thought about everything, she thought, but he would act on emotion, if the emotion were powerful enough. Alis had told her of the fight at Black Valley, when they'd returned from stealing the horses to find Sam covered in blood, exhausted but triumphant on the field, the bodies of the Scythians lying in heaps around him. When she'd questioned him, tentatively, about that day, he'd told her that he hadn't been thinking, that he'd become filled with a spirit of vengeance, and had only wanted to decimate the enemy and save his friends. He'd shaken his head ruefully at the half-memories he had, telling her that he didn't even know how it was he'd survived.

_You survived because your heart was pure, and the gods saw that and reached down and protected you_, she'd told him, matter of factly. He'd looked at her a little strangely and shrugged.

If they kept going as they were, they could reach Penemue's home in the mountain border in a week's time. From there, it would be a month's journey to Deep Ice, and autumn already upon them. She realised that this would be the first time she'd missed the harvest. The milestones of each year had flown past so quickly this year. Midsummer seemed barely weeks ago, yet it had been months. Would they be alive by midwinter?

It had not escaped her attention that she and Castiel and Rascha would have pass by the southern army to get home. That the villages and towns of the lower mountains might have been destroyed by the time they got to them. She shivered a little and walked faster, clicking impatiently to her camel to keep up. They would deal with whatever the situation was when they saw it, she thought, the echo of her father's voice in her mind. Wasting time and energy on imagining might-have-happened was a profitless exercise that only fools indulged in, that was Valenis, she thought, the memory of the acerbic tone bringing a half-smile.

Castiel had told her that Sam was alright. That he'd been captured for a reason, and his captors would keep him alive and well for that reason. And as long as he was alive, they would find him, and rescue him. She clung to those words fiercely, whenever her thoughts veered too close to worrying about him.

Looking up, she saw that they were much closer to the lights now, and it was an encampment, a big one, with many fires burning and many shelters.

She looked at Castiel. "Is it safe?"

Castiel glanced back to her. "They are people, from the deep desert to the east."

Nomads, she thought. Valenis had told her about them, the healer had spent a year living with a tribe in the desert, before she'd come to the village. Fierce, proud, compassionate, honourable, she had always spoken of them with respect and love. She had said that they had taught her how to live again, when her heart had been frozen with loss, her spirit broken with pain. Ruane drew the hook of her cloak over her hair and kept walking, curiosity overcoming fear.

* * *

Sam tried desperately to stay upright when his feet touched the ground. His muscles had been pulled and stretched and pounded by the days' of unremitting riding, and he thought of his brother's comment about getting used to it with practice, with a hollow laugh.

Samyaza was watching him, and he straightened up, locking his knees and shifting his feet to present the appearance of being fine, at least. The Watcher laughed and turned away, and the guards to either side of him, gripped his arms above the elbow and marched him to a small tent. Inside, a rough bed of hay and furs had been made, next to it, a small folding table with bowls of food and drink sat, steam rising from the hot food and tea, the scents making his stomach growl continuously. He dropped to his knees, and lifted his hands, holding the looping chain with one hand as he scooped up the food with the other and ate.

With the remounts, he thought they had been making close to sixty, seventy miles a day. Today, the mountains to the north had filled the landscape, from east to west, the western ranges of the Pontides, he thought. Beyond them, the Black Sea. He didn't know much about the countries that lined the western shores of that sea, Bulgaria, he thought, Romania maybe. The Ukraine was the northern coast. He wondered how populated those countries were in this time. They were mountainous, for the most part, he thought. The Carpathians nearly reached the sea, in Romania. He shook his head. He would know which route they would take when they took it.

The food was good, and plentiful and he followed the reasoning that poisoning him after dragging his sorry ass nearly five hundred miles was illogical. He stretched out on the fur-covered bed and closed his eyes, grateful to be horizontal, grateful to be still, grateful for a scent that was not horse, or sulphur, or blood, filling his nose.


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

* * *

The sun had not yet risen when the village went down to the fields, but the sky was pale to the east, fine ribbons of cloud showing rose and silver along their edges, promising a fine day with some breeze, the dew on the stalks wetting boots and pants, murmured conversations competing with the first birdcalls.

Dean looked at the fields, the stands of the wheat and barley and oats hip-high, the grain-heavy heads bowed slightly at the tops. He couldn't help with the cutting, the simple scythes needed the full movement of the upper body, both arms and shoulders, and he was a long way from being able to achieve that. Even the small sickles needed a better range of movement than he had. He couldn't help with raking or drying either, unable to make a decent fist with his left hand that didn't send shards of pain through the healing muscle. He could lead the carts, up and down the rows, collecting the dried stooks as they were gathered and bound. He could sharpen the blades, as the men came in from the fields, swapping blunted tools for razor keen ones. He sighed slightly as he walked to the heavy timber tables set along the edge of the poplars, where they would shaded through the morning, joining the older inhabitants of the village.

By the time the sun had risen a hand's breadth above the rim of the eastern peaks, half of the first field was cut, and the women followed the harvesters slowly along the rows, raking and gathering the stalks into sheaves, binding them quickly and leaving them upright along the row.

"What a face, Dean." Mya laughed beside him, her wrinkled face nut brown, her dark eyes bright. "You will be with the men next harvest, not with the old women."

He turned to her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "And miss out on your company, Mya? Nah, I'll just break a leg before harvest."

"You be careful with your flirting with us, Dean, we could take you up on it and then you'd be in trouble." Katya grinned slyly at him, her strong white teeth belying the fact that she would reach her ninety-eighth birthday this year. He smiled back and shrugged, looking along the edge of the long blade and handing it over to Elbek as the hunter passed him another, the edge dulled down, Elbek's grin creasing his face as he caught the last comment.

"Time for you to be loading anyway, young man." Anton gestured to the wagons trundling out on the fields. "You leave these girls to the men with the experience to handle them."

There was a chorus of laughter and cat-calls from the women and Dean stood up, shaking his head as he walked onto the field, taking the reins and leading the small, high-sided wagon slowly along the row. On the other side of the row of bundles of sheaves, young women, young men and children picked up the sheaves and threw them into the wagon.

As the wagons were filled, the handlers led them to the threshing area, where the flails were used to separate the grains from the stalks. Dean watched the women working as the wagon was unloaded, two of the men shovelling the mix of grain and chaff into the wide, shallow winnowing baskets. With the arrival of the mid-morning breeze, firm and constant down the length of the valley, the lighter chaff blew off the grains as the baskets were lifted sharply and the contents rose into the air, while the heavier grains fell back into them.

Valenis had told him that normally the grains would go into the store rooms outside of the village walls. But this year, they were storing all that they could harvest inside the village, making room in the barns and the keep, in the houses and workshops and in hastily built temporary storehouses, framed in timber and walled with twigs and straw and rushes plastered heavily together with river and glacier mud over the light staithes in between the framing timbers. The roofs were thatched, with alternating layers of birch and straw, to a depth of almost four foot. It had been the quickest he'd ever seen a substantial building go up. The season had been good for them, no late frost to blight the grain or damage the fruit and vegetables, and for the past two weeks, the air around the village had been sharp with the scent of vinegar and salt, as the excess produce from the gardens was pickled and dried and salted.

After the grains were in, there would be fruit to pick, the plums and pears already ripe and sweet, the grapes soon after, then apples. He nodded at the young boy who waved him on, leading his horse back to the field, thinking that he'd learned more about agriculture in the last five months than he'd ever known. The funny thing about it was that he cared about it. He still felt vaguely hungry most of the time, the food was good, and there was plenty of it, but everyone spent almost all day on their feet, working, and it was used up well before the next meal. Knowing that they would have enough for the winter was important. And making sure that there would be no pickings left for an invading army was very important.

He tipped his head up to the sky, closing his eyes against the bright sunshine, breathing in the rich scents that surrounded him. Sam would laugh, he thought, if he knew what he was thinking about. His brother, perennial bad ass, enjoying the morning, thinking about fruit and storehouses and wheat and straw and hay and barley. He smiled, a small self-deprecatory smile, as he slowed down to walk the wagon along the next row.

* * *

Sam caught the smell of salt on the air and lifted his head. As they came around the cliff wall, he saw the glitter of the sunshine from the waves, saw the long coastline unwinding in front of them. The small village at the edge, between the sea and the mountain, held a dozen roughly built houses, some built right against the edge of the rock plateau that dropped into the clear blue water.

Tied against the roughly hewn rock quays three boats were tied. He frowned as he looked at them. Double-ended, and big, they bore a remarkable resemblance to the paintings and reproductions he'd seen of Viking longships, the high prow and short masts, shallow curving bellies and doubled floors, providing bilges below the decks. There were three of them, and he felt his heart sink as he caught sight of one of the men leaning on the bulwarks of the closest, the flaming red hair and beard of a Norseman, and the dead black eyes of a demon.

Samyaza drew rein and waited for Sam's horse to come alongside his.

"I hope you have a strong stomach. The next leg will be by sea." The Watcher waved at the boats.

"A bit late in the season for the Black Sea, isn't it?" Sam had no idea when the best time to sail on this inland body of water was, he just wanted some time to get used to the idea.

"No, this is a good time. Another month, and perhaps not, the easterlies begin to bring storms across the sea then. But now, it will be very pleasant."

"If you say so." Sam shrugged and looked at the rest of the crew, now vaulting over the bulwarks and settling themselves around the deck.

The Watcher glanced sideways at him, a humourless smile stretching his mouth. "You'll have to do better than that, Sam. We will have plenty of time for you to think of interesting things to divert me with on the way up the northern river." He dismounted, handing his horse to one of the Scythians and vaulted easily into the first ship.

Sam looked down as the chains were unlocked and drawn free, and he was pulled from the horse. The two guards, who had not slept at all on the entire journey, caught his arms and dragged him down to the ship, lifting him over the rail and pulling him to seat in the middle of the boat. The chains were locked again, around the thwart that he was sitting on. He looked down at the chains and then out over the water. Even if he could get the chains off, where the hell would he go once they were out of sight of land?

By sea, it was somewhere around five hundred miles, due north to Odessa – or at least where Odessa would be in the future. Did Samyaza mean to travel up the Dneiper? Or the Volga? He shook his head. Did it matter? Five hundred miles on foot, by horse, would take weeks. But with a following wind, or any breeze that was aft of the beam, this ship would take them across the sea in six or seven days. He closed his eyes. Castiel might have reached Penemue by now, if the sandstorm had died off in hours rather than days, and nothing else had stopped them. It wouldn't help. By the time the angel reached the village and Dean, he would be halfway across the Ukraine, and they would never be able to catch up, not in time, not before winter buried the north in snow and ice.

He lifted his head, opening his eyes, watching as the six crew members readied the boat for leaving. All six were possessed, and he could see the binding links on their arms clearly. Samyaza and four of the Scythians were on board as well. He turned his head to look at the ships behind them. The remaining Scythians and the horses were loaded on them. Not all of them, though, he did a quick recount. Only fifteen. The others were staying … or returning to the army … or … hunting different game. The Corival, Castiel had said. The challenger. A man, an ordinary man, according to the prophecy.

Now that they had him, there was no reason for the armies to be hesitant. They would sweep over the mountains and leave nothing alive.

* * *

The camp was ringed by guards, four of whom escorted Castiel, Ruane and Rascha to the largest black tent, near the centre. The angel ducked as he passed under the low flap of the loose door, looking down when he felt the change in the surface underfoot. The floor of the tent was spread with rugs, brightly coloured and woven tightly from camel and goat hair yarn, soft and yielding but tough enough to withstand the abrasive sand.

The man who stood in the centre of the tent was tall, the iqal around his head holding three cords, his face carved and seamed by the desert wind, the skin a deep brown, like a polished nut, his eyes almost black. Castiel stopped and lowered his head.

"_As-Salāmu `alayk_."

The man smiled, and bowed his head. "_Wa `alayka s-salām_."

"We saw your lights. We are travelling north, to the mountains."

"You are welcomed. I am Zilabias Hadji. Rest here and be my guests."

Castiel bowed his head and touched the fingers of his right hand to his forehead. "My name is Castiel. Your hospitality is very generous."

"The hospitality of the host is honoured by the guest, Casteel." The man looked around and gestured abruptly. Food was brought and placed on the low table to one side of the tent. "Join me. Eat."

"We couldn't impose on your generosity."

"It is my pleasure to speak with people who are travelling, please, sit, join me."

"We wished only to pay my respects, we do not require refreshments."

"But I insist. Sit, you are tired from walking over the desert. I can see it. Join me for coffee and tell me of your travels."

"Your generosity will be remembered in our prayers."

"Ah. Yes."

Rascha and Ruane were introduced and they sat cross-legged at the table. The ritual of coffee making was observed. Castiel was careful to keep the conversation strictly to personal matters of the sheikh and enquiries after his family and herds. Business talk could come the following day, outside of the tent.

When they left the black tent, the guards showed them where to set up their own shelters. Rascha smiled at Castiel as they sat cross-legged in front of their small fire.

"You seem very practised with the customs of the bedouin?"

"I … I lived in this area for many years, and I was curious about … men. I always thought that the nomads were the most interesting people, their code of honour and their dignity, in the harshness of this environment, seemed to speak of the good things that mankind was capable of."

"Have you seen them in battle?" Rascha lifted a eyebrow.

The corner of Castiel's mouth lifted. "I have. You think they're bad, you should see angels in battle."

He lay back on the thick woven bedroll, pulling the blanket over himself. "I think we will be safe enough here, to sleep without watches, Rascha."

"You are right. But I like to think in the darkness, Casteel. I will think for a while longer."

* * *

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes and looked up, as Elbek crouched beside him. The deep shade under the spreading hornbeam had been soporific, and he realised he'd been almost asleep.

"Time to get back to work?" He started to sit up and the hunter smiled, shaking his head.

"No, relax. I brought you another cup." Elbek handed him the cup of cloudy cider, ice cold from the river. "I wanted to thank you."

Dean tilted his head slightly, looking over the rim of the cup at the other man. "For what?"

Elbek looked at him, the one-sided smile dry. "For releasing Kiya."

He shook his head, not wanting to get into this conversation. "It wasn't working, it happens."

Elbek sat back on his heels, his face curious. "So it didn't have to do with anyone else?"

Dean snorted. "How much free time do you think I have?"

The hunter smiled reluctantly and shrugged. "Lev thought … Never mind."

_Yeah, never mind_, Dean thought. "Vasilii said something about you two moving to another village?"

Elbek nodded. "Black River needs another healer, and more men."

"You're going to Black River?" Dean straightened up slightly. "I need someone I can trust there, to set off the bombs in the Wolf's Mouth, if the army start heading that way. When do you go?"

"As soon as the harvest is finished."

"Shouldn't you be helping them with theirs?"

Elbek shook his head. "Black River doesn't have the soils to grow crops. They trade with us for grain instead, fur and metal and skills."

"Right." He thought of the timing. "Well, consider a part of your evenings cancelled from now until the end of the harvest, you and Lev. I need to train you to use the explosives."

"I will tell Lev." He looked at Dean for a moment. "Thanks again, for … you know."

Dean closed his eyes, leaning back against the roots of the hornbeam. "Yeah, sure."

He heard the other man's footfalls receding through the thick grass. He wouldn't make it too complicated. Just how to set and lay the fuse. And why it was important to get the casings deep inside the rock. And how to make sure they had enough get away time. Simple.

_She would be back here_. The thought snuck in. He felt a peculiar flutter in his chest, followed by a spreading heat as a memory filled his mind. He pushed it away, sitting up and swallowing the down the cold cider. It had been almost a week, not long in the overall scheme of things, but long enough surely to be … to be past this. After all the practice he'd had, burying things, not looking at them, ignoring them even when they resurfaced in his dreams, how could it be so goddamned difficult to pretend it had never happened, that he hadn't seen, hadn't felt.

He rolled onto his feet, and walked back along the river to the fields. He didn't have time for anything other than what he had to do. He flexed his left hand, making a fist, and feeling pain leap in his shoulder, wiping the last traces of the image from his imagination.

The wheat was harvested and half of the barley. They would be finished with the grain harvesting by the end of the week, and he would ride back up to the Wolf's Mouth, go see if he could find any sign of the northern army, take Lev and Elbek and get those bombs settled in place, train the two of them on the way. The sense of time slipping away, of events speeding toward them had been growing in the back of his mind over the past few days. It might have been a reaction to being in the village, being involved in the normal seasonal activities … but it might not.

* * *

Sam turned his head to one side as the spray was blown back from the bows and covered him in fine droplets. His skin was crusted with salt from the repeated dousings, drying his lips and dampening his hair and clothes in the heavily moist air. The easterlies were a little early this year, he thought, watching the grey seas heaving around the boat. Above him the big sail bellied out, smooth and taut with the pressure of the wind, and through the planking of the hull he could hear the rush and bubble of the water as it raced along under them.

Behind and to either side, the other two ships were following close, the high bows crashing into the waves, sending sheets of spray high into the air. The wind was increasing, he thought, feeling it against the back of his head, warring with the downdraught from the sail. Samyaza leaned against the bulwark, eyes narrowed as he watched the sea, the sky. With mountains on every side, strong winds could turn the sea into a wild ride, whipping up the water into short, steep waves that could overturn even a deep-keeled vessel, let alone the shallow-draughted ships they were in.

The Watcher caught his eye and grinned like a shark. "Relax, the wind is backing, it will drop by tomorrow."

Sam turned away with a shrug. The four Scythian soldiers were leaning out over the leeward rail, their faces drawn and various shades of green. Even demons couldn't keep their bodies from feeling the stomach-churning disorientation of sea-sickness, he thought, taking some small measure of satisfaction in their discomfort.

This was the third day and they were surrounded by water, no land visible at any point of the compass. The wind had picked up through the night, and he thought they might be making six or seven knots, even against the chop.

"We've made three hundred miles, Sam." The Watcher lurched across the deck in time with the lift and drop of the bow, sitting next to him on the broad thwart. "By tomorrow morning we'll see Sarych on the horizon. From there we will be in more sheltered waters."

"Where is your master?" Sam looked at the man beside him. Samyaza had taken off the kuffiya and iqal, and his hair was long and black, bound at the nape of his neck.

"Ah … at the end of the world, Sam. He lives at the end of the world where there is nothing but fire and ice and water."

Iceland? He'd finally remembered where he'd heard the term the prophecy had used. The island lay between the British Isles and Greenland, it would mean crossing most of Europe to get to the closest point on the coast. "So we'll go west when we land?"

Samyaza turned to him with a faint grin, and for a moment, he saw something else in the Watcher's eyes, something old and unclean and sly, watching him. It disappeared abruptly as if it had seen that he had noticed it.

"No, north is our course, due north to the end of the world." The Watcher looked away, and compressed his lips slightly as he felt the wind falter against his skin and then strengthen. "We will just make it before the first winter snows, I think. Your friends will not."

Sam stared at him, and the Watcher's gaze returned to him, his face twisted suddenly, in his eyes something that looked like panic.

"It must happen as it was seen, Sam." Samyaza's voice was low and urgent. "It must."

* * *

"They are very fine camels." Hadji looked at them, walking slowly around the animals. "Yes, I think we can trade for these."

Castiel nodded non-committally. "They have served us well, but our needs will be different in the mountains."

"Yes. Camels are not suited to the lands of the north." He turned to his sons and told them to bring the horses.

Ruane gasped softly as the four horses were led around from behind the tents. They weren't large horses, perhaps a little smaller than the steppes animals. Two were chestnut, with lighter manes and tails, one with a small white star on its forehead, the other solid. A bay and a grey, dappled over the shoulders and rump followed them. Their heads were fine, large, dark eyes looking around curiously at the strangers, arching their necks and stamping small, hard round hooves.

Castiel looked at the deep girths, the straight, slender legs and nodded to the sheikh. "These horses are the finest I've seen, Hadji."

Hadji smiled politely. They were the least of his herd, although all strong and fit and well-trained. The trade was equitable. He nodded to his sons and they took the camels and the horses away, to transfer the loads, and saddle the animals, Rascha following them to help with the loading. When they returned, the horses stood quietly, knowing that once the saddles were on, it was time to work.

"Your generosity has eased our journey. May your table be always full, your family in good health, your battles end in victories."

"And yours, Casteel." Hadji stretched out his right hand, pulling the angel close to him as he took it. Castiel forced himself not to stiffen at the closeness of the man, returning the kiss on each cheek, lifting his hand to rest against his chest over his heart as Hadji stepped back.

"Good hunting, my friend." Hadji looked up at him as he sat on the grey. "Evil times demand great courage, great heroes."

The angel looked down at him for a long moment, wondering what the desert dweller really knew. Hadji's face was open and sincere, but devoid of any greater knowledge, at least that he could discern. He nodded and turned the grey away, Ruane following him, and Rascha her, leading the other chestnut. One shelter cloth had been left, along with the food that would perish in the moister air of the mountains.

To the north, they could see the outlines of the mountains that divided Syria from Turkey. They could now avoid Halab, Castiel thought, cross the mountains to the east of the city, and push on fast for Penemue. He felt a strong desire to see the Watcher again, to listen to his counsel. Penemue had lived here for a long time, amongst men, he had acquired a critical faculty that Castiel felt he was lacking in the ways of humankind.

He looked up at the cloudless blue sky, wondering if anyone was looking down at him, watching him as he'd watched. He had healed; the long slow trip had returned his vessel to health. But he couldn't feel Heaven. Couldn't feel the power of the souls when he reached out for it.

He looked down at the black and grey mane in front of him, unwilling to face the possibility yet that he was no longer an angel, that he was simply a mortal man.


	27. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

* * *

The early morning was cool and fresh, and Dean looked down at the sparkling white that covered the grass along the edge of the road. He turned, looking along the curving road that led south, taking in the thin mists that rose from the river, the parti-coloured foliage of the trees, watching as a light breeze touched the tops of the poplars along the river's edge and a dozen leaves twisted up into the air, falling slowly onto the moving water.

Behind him, he could hear the creak of leather and the snort of the horses as Elbek, Kiya and Lev mounted. He turned back to them, chewing the edge of his lip, as he pushed away the worry that was nearly a permanent part of his mental state now. The signal fires had not been lit. They still had time. He closed his legs against his horse's sides and heard the others follow as he rode up the track heading north.

They camped in the well-used hollow near the river the first night, and Dean explained to Elbek and Lev about the fuses, specifically how long they would take to burn to the casing.

"You can set them off with a lit arrow." He looked from one to the other. "It has to be accurate because the arrow will cut the fuse where it hits."

Lev glanced at Elbek and shrugged. "The ones we put on the top of the tunnel, in the holes, they must be set alight by hand, yes?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his hand over his face. "So you need to make sure the fuses are long enough to give you enough time to get down again, and away."

He'd made several hundred feet of cannon fuse for this job. It still wasn't enough to reach from the top of the tunnel to the ground. Guin had promised more yarn for him, but he couldn't wait any longer. Vasiliĭ had sent two scouts north, when he'd returned, to check the position of the northern army. They hadn't returned.

"You'll have five to ten minutes to get down after you light the fuses, but that's all. You'll have to leave a rope, it can't be helped, there's no way to get down that wall quickly enough otherwise."

"The … bombs … they are more powerful than the one you showed us?" Elbek licked his lips, the explosives seemed unnatural to him, although Dean treated them as any other weapon, respectfully but without fear. The power of the one he'd used in the demonstration had seemed godlike to Elbek, and privately he wondered about the advisability of using the gods' powers for their own purposes.

"Yeah, maybe five or six times more powerful." He looked at his friend. "They have to be, to collapse the tunnel."

Lev glanced between them and slapped Elbek's shoulder. "We light them and run like rabbits, Elbek. Like baiting the ogre."

"And we all remember how well that turned out," Elbek said, his mouth twisting sardonically.

Lev shrugged. "We're still alive."

* * *

Castiel clenched his fists against his thighs, eyes squeezed tightly shut as the curved bone needle passed through his flesh.

"You were not wrong when you said you were mortal, my friend." Penemue drew the thin line of sinew through the holes and tied it off, cutting the end and moving higher along the long cut to do the next one.

The attack had come a day ago, as they'd passed into the forest still on the southern slopes of the mountains. Six horse soldiers, all possessed, had burst from the trees ahead of them, and the first arrow had taken Rascha through the throat as the hunter had tried to turn his horse and the packhorse. Ruane had thrown herself clear, rolling into the dense undergrowth, her bow strung in seconds and the iron arrowheads piercing two of the men, giving Castiel enough time to get back down the trail with the horses and arm himself.

He didn't really remember the fight that had followed. There were moments in his mind, a dark-skinned, dark-haired soldier, head thrown back, boiling with a livid red-gold glow under the tan skin as his sword had pushed through the chest. Ruane's face, half-covered in blood as she pulled her sword from a dead Scythian. The moment when the demon's sword descended toward him, the sunlight winking from the razor sharp edge of the curved blade, and he'd twisted sideways desperately, feeling his flesh open over the bone at the back of his shoulder. And Rascha's face, shocked and still, as he'd knelt beside him and closed the lids over the dark brown eyes.

They'd stripped the bodies and left them in the woods. Castiel remembered Dean's words about burning a hunter's body, and they'd burned Rascha's body on a pyre, overlooking the fall of the mountainside. Then they'd retrieved the horses and continued to the Watcher's home.

"Do you think it was a planned attack, Cas? Or random luck that they found you?"

"I don't know." The angel twisted around to look over his shoulder as Penemue tied off the last stitch and covered the wound with a thick dressing.

He stood up, looking around the big room curiously. The Watcher had built a fort of great stone blocks, against the tight valley end. He could feel traps and wardings inside of the walls, under the floors, Enochian, Aramaic, even Egyptian. He turned back to Penemue, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"This place is … formidable."

Penemue shrugged, tossing the blood stained cloths onto the fire. "I had a lot of time, and some help. It seemed a good precaution to take."

"Yes."

He turned to the long raised bed near the fire. Ruane was sleeping, her injuries dressed. The Watcher thought it would be a day or two before she could ride again.

"Can you contact Valenis? In the water?"

"Yes." Penemue gestured to the table behind him. "You should eat, Castiel, and rest."

"Later."

He'd told the Watcher of what he'd learned in Jordan, and of the demons who'd taken Sam during the sandstorm. Penemue had been unsurprised by everything except the discovery of Castiel's bones, lying in the desert. He had no memory of a battle between the angels and the fallen either.

"Could it be a part of the sorcerer's work? A false memory implanted in the Watchers, to stop them from becoming active against him?"

Cas had shaken his head helplessly. "I do not know. Araquiel was convinced of the event. He could scarcely believe it when I showed up there."

He couldn't understand the significance of the discovery. He was alive, but mortal. His bones, his real bones, were lying in a desert, had been there for over a hundred years. There was no reason to it.

"Can you see other things in the water, Penemue? Can you see Sam?"

The Watcher walked to the table, lifting a delicate silver ewer from the beaten silver bowl on the table and pouring water from it into the bowl. The water stilled, the last ripples dying away, quiescent and as clear as fine glass.

"Possibly." Penemue watched a cloud appear in the bottom of the bowl, dark and turgid, spreading like ink through the still liquid.

In a moment, the water in the bowl was black, reflecting his face back at him. He looked into the reflection, clearing his mind and leaving it empty and receptive.

Shapes swam slowly under the darkness, blurred and vague and amorphous at first, sharpening as they slid upward to the surface. He watched, feeling nothing, thinking nothing as the images passed across the water, a storm-wracked sea, long northern ships tossing on the waves, the wind sending spumes of spray into the air as men struggled with the large sail, Sam's face, closed and hard as he crouched in the bottom of the boat, the glint of chain bindings, Samyaza's long dark hair blown back as the Watcher's mouth opened in a shout … the images faded and sank below the water and his eyes refocussed as his reflection looked back at him.

"Sam is in a boat, with Samyaza. The sea is large, and there is a storm. I saw two other ships nearby, the men were all possessed."

"The Black Sea?" Castiel stared at Penemue.

"I think so." Penemue looked up and over at the angel. "That would fit with the timing, wouldn't it?"

Castiel nodded, turning away. "Yes. Let Valenis know this as well. And tell her she must not let Dean leave until we get there. He cannot do this alone."

Penemue nodded, and turned back to the bowl, concentrating now on the healer in the north.

Castiel walked to the fire, looking absently into the flames. Crossing the Black Sea by ship. It was clever. Even with the danger of the storm, it would be far quicker than walking or riding. They would gain weeks on any pursuit.

* * *

Sam braced himself as the ship rolled suddenly, dropping off the crest of the wave and landing in the trough with a loud crack. Three of the Scythians were thrown from one side to the other, the fourth went over the bulwark, landing a few feet from the ship in the churning water. No one made a move to retrieve the soldier and Sam watched as the man disappeared beneath the surface of the waves, drawn quickly down by the weight of his armour and clothes, his upturned face white with terror.

The wind had not backed or eased, and the black line of squalls to the east was getting closer, the long narrow vessel losing way as the sail was reefed to a third of its original size. A few miles ahead he could see the towering cliff walls of Cape Sarych, the seas breaking in spectacular explosions of water and spray at the base.

If they could round the cape and get into the lee of the land, they would probably make it to the coast, he thought tiredly, uncaring of the outcome either way. His determination, his will to survive, to keep fighting, keep looking for a way to break free had vanished several hours ago, when the Watcher had told him gleefully that Castiel, Rascha and Ruane had been killed, in the forests of the foothills of the Pontides, by a scouting party of Scythians. He still wasn't sure if it was a lie to break him, or the truth. The details that Samyaza had given, that they'd been on horses, the design of the clasp that Ruane wore on her cloak, the tattoo on Rascha's forearm … the Watcher had seen them, he couldn't doubt that.

The ship rolled again, and the Norsemen swore at the Scythians, as the horse-soldiers, unused to judging the movements of the boats, reeled across the boat and crashed into them. Samyaza crouched, his back against the mast, staring at Sam, ignoring the chaos around him. Sam raised his head, looking into the silvery eyes of the Watcher.

"Run out the sweeps!" The command was shouted but barely heard over the whistling of the wind as it ran through the rigging. The sailors pushed the Scythians onto the thwarts crossing the ship, and ran out the long oars, five to a side, pulling the ship around and away from the sharp rocks that littered the sea out from the sheer cliffs.

Sam kept his eyes fixed on the Watcher. He could hear something above the wind, a voice, the words lost in the cacophony surrounding him. His eyes widened as he saw Samyaza's lips moving, and the voice strengthened above the storm, the man's eyes rolling back into his head, showing only the whites. The wind eased and the seas around them began to drop. He twisted around to look at the Norseman on the tiller behind him, the muscles of the huge man relaxing slightly as he no longer had to fight the seas for control. The pale blue eyes focussed on him, and blinked, changing to black as the demon riding him grinned suddenly.

He turned away, looking back to the Watcher. Samyaza's face was expressionless; the silvery eyes half-closed now.

"We are watched, and protected, Sam. You needn't worry that we will end up in a watery grave." The man's face split into a smile. "No matter how much you'd like that."

Sam turned his head, looking at the cliffs as they slid past, the water calming and smoothing around them, the storm left behind.

It was dark before they made the mouth of the broad river. The ship moved in between the banks, the long oars carrying them upstream against the current as the sail was furled around the yard. Here the river was wide, the far bank invisible in the darkness. Sam could smell the scents of the forests and marshes that lined them, though, almost overpowering after the single scent of salt-laden air that had filled their noses for the last few days.

His brow furrowed as he thought of what little he knew of this river. One of the largest in eastern Europe. Navigable in his time, but only to a certain point. What would it be like now, without irrigation or flood control or locks or weirs along its great length? He thought they'd have to return to land travel within a hundred miles or so. He vaguely remembered reading of a section of river where cataracts and rapids had stopped shipping from being able to move upstream.

"Sleep." Samyaza's voice drifted to him, although he couldn't see the Watcher now. "We will continue through the night. By morning, we will have to leave the river."

* * *

The sunshine beat down on the rocky hillside, still warm enough to raise the temperature under the hardened leather cuirass and back plates. Dean ignored the trickle of sweat that ran down beside his eye, remaining completely still as he watched the activity in the valley below.

Twenty feet to his left, Lev also lay face down in the short brown grass, watching the advance unit establishing the bridgehead, his eyes moving slightly as he looked for the leader of the unit.

Their gazes shifted together as another group of horses and men came riding up the narrow track at the valley's end. The man at the head of the group drew the eye immediately, the long hair that flew out like a pennant behind him was copper red, shining like the burnished metal in the bright light.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he counted the soldiers now filling the long basin. Over two hundred, all mounted. No signs of wagons or a supply train for these boys, he thought. Compared to what they were used to, the mountains would feed them easily. The valley was too small to accommodate the whole army, he wondered if the leader was planning on bringing smaller groups like this one at a time, leap-frogging his army into the mountains.

They would eat out every area, he thought. Just the horses, even if the demons weren't feeding the soldiers. Maybe that was the idea. Locusts, slow moving, but still locusts. Leaving nothing but death and barren land behind them.

He slid his hand along the ground very slowly toward Lev, watching the young hunter turn his head with equal slowness to look at it. Tapping his finger twice against the rock, Dean began to inch backwards along the rough ground, moving slowly a few inches, then stopping, his eyes never leaving the soldiers in the valley.

When they were finally out of sight of the valley and off the curve of the ridge, he rolled over and wiped the sweat from his face and out of his hair. They were too damned close, less than forty miles. He looked south, he couldn't see the signal fire from here, too many peaks in the way.

"We'll have to close the pass." He looked at Lev. They had planted the casings two days ago, Elbek and Lev climbing up, lifting the explosives one by one to the top, unwinding the fuses and setting them into the sinks. He'd revised the plan for setting them off when Elbek had drawn him a rough diagram of the position of the holes in the top of the tunnel, scratched out in the dirt with a twig. It wasn't as efficient as being able to set them off simultaneously, but he thought they would still do the job, daisy-chained together.

Lev watched Dean's brows draw together and waited for him to make a move. Dean stared at a shrub a foot away as he thought of their options. They were two days ride from the pass, more than three from Black River. The army looked like it was settling in, but could he be sure about that? He looked back at the lip of the ridge and rolled onto his feet.

"Come on."

Lev got up behind him and they moved silently down the rocks, to the cleft in the ridge where they'd left their horses.

The Scythian's short sword caught a gleam of sun's low rays and that was the only warning he had. He found his sword already in his hand, the edge whistling as he cut across the body, blocking and twisting the heavier, shorter blade with his own, ignoring the shriek in his shoulder as he drew the long blood metal knife automatically from the sheath at the back of his hip, stepping into the soldier and angling the black knife through the join in the armour, between the ribs and into the heart. He jerked it free as the body lit up from within, spinning around and dropping to his knees as a combination of instinct and training warned him of the enemy behind him, the hiss of the sword passing just over him giving him the timing to rise, and drive the length of his sword straight into the off-balance body in front of him.

He glanced at Lev, seeing the young hunter pressed back against the rock, the soldier in front of him heavier, older, more experienced. From somewhere beyond the edge of the ridge, he heard a snap of brush as someone else forced their way through, and realised that they could be surrounded here too easily. He reversed the knife and threw it, the flickering underhand motion driving the nine inch blade into the back of the soldier's neck to the hilt, the body lighting up brilliantly as the demon inside died.

"We've got more coming." Dean reached for his knife, pulling it free, sliding it back into the sheath, and grabbed Lev's shoulder, dragging him to the horses. He felt the man stumble beside him and looked down, seeing the long open gash on the outside of Lev's thigh, the muscle torn apart. He dropped slightly, putting his right shoulder underneath Lev's and half-carrying him across the clearing to the horses.

"Can you stay in the saddle?" He looked into Lev's face, wincing inwardly as he saw pain fogging the wide blue eyes.

Lev nodded, reaching up to take a grip on the mane and the back of the saddle. Dean gritted his teeth as he lifted him up, his shoulder a mass of agony now. Lev picked up his reins as Dean half-ran to his own horse, twisting to lever himself up with his right shoulder, and seeing the flashing glimpse of another horse coming across the clearing from the corner of his eye as they turned their mounts to the trail, driving them into a gallop.

The horses knew where they were going, and Dean spared a quick backward look to make sure Lev was still with him. He thought of the trail ahead, of when he would be able to see the signal fire on the peak four miles from the tunnel. He leaned low over his horse's neck as they galloped along, remembering the accuracy of the Scythian archers all too easily and hoping that Lev was following his lead and doing the same. They had one small advantage, their horses were well fed and well rested, the scouts behind them must have ridden theirs all day, first to the valley, and then climbing the ridge. He wondered what had given them away, then dismissed the thought as unproductive, glancing backwards again, looking low, under the arm rather than over his shoulder. They were falling back, their horses tired. Dean looked ahead. The trail would descend down the saddle between this ridge and the next, then climb steeply. He thought he would be able to see the signal fire on its high peak from the top of the next ridge.

_How to get the attention of the keeper of the signal fire?_ He could probably set something on fire but that would attract the attention of the army behind them as well as the watcher in front. He needed something that only the watcher would see, something to get his attention discreetly. They wouldn't be able to keep up this pace, and he needed Elbek to be at the tunnel as soon as possible.

The idea came in the guise of a memory, something he'd seen years ago in a film. He straightened up slightly, closing his fingers on the reins, and the horse obediently slowed as Lev's drew alongside him.

"You got anything shiny on you? Glass? Metal? Anything that will reflect light?"

Lev stared at him groggily as they pounded along the trail side by side, then slowly nodded, lifting one hand from the mane of his horse to his neck. Dean glanced back, seeing the dust rising from their own horses, but nothing beyond that. _Please let them have dropped back far enough_, he thought, turning his head back to Lev.

The hunter tugged on something around his neck and extended his hand across to Dean. He reached out, his fingers closing around Lev's hand and felt the small round disc. Lev released his grip on it, and Dean's fingers tightened.

He looked down. The small pendant was silver, hammered into a flat disc, and polished. If they had enough time, it might just work, he thought, pushing his horse faster again and accelerating up the trail. Behind him, Lev's horse increased his speed to keep up with his stablemate.

* * *

Sam heard the thunder in his sleep, his eyes closing tightly as the noise segued seamlessly into the dream of the first thunderstorm, when they'd appeared on the mountain top, Cas injured, the low, slow descent through the forests, looking for shelter.

He woke abruptly as the cold fingers of the Watcher touched him, struggling to sit up on the damp deck of the long boat. It was morning, the sky overcast and heavy, but the thunder wasn't from the sky. He turned around, and saw the boiling white water several hundred feet ahead of them, his skin misted by the spume rising from the rapids.

"Back to land." The Watcher turned away from him, as the Scythians unlocked the chains and pulled him to his feet. The boats drifted slowly to the western shore of the river, moving out of the fast current. Along the length of the river bank he could see the forest crowded close to the edge, the trees huge and ancient, the understorey virtually non-existent with the lack of light coming through the interlocked canopy.

One after another, the boats were manoeuvred alongside the bank and the soldiers jumped the horses out, over the rail and onto the banks. He was lifted across, his guards manhandling him easily. A horse was brought up, and he mounted it, the chains run once again through the saddle bow, and his ankles locked to the stirrups. He looked down at Samyaza as the Watcher oversaw the soldiers packing the supplies onto their mounts.

Had the Watcher broken free of his master's control, for a second? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything any more. Pain crawled out of his memories and over him and he tried to force it away. The Watcher had good reason to lie to him, to destroy his hope and make him despair. Castiel had died before and been resurrected, that alone should give him hope.

He looked up at the trees, seeing beyond the dark canopies, the leaden sky. _Don't let them be dead._ He didn't know who the prayer was to, really. Just that he needed help and there was no one else to ask.

* * *

Valenis stared into the wide mouthed bowl, watching the darkness in the water disappearing and becoming clear.

Alis looked at her mother's face. "What is it?"

The healer closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, turning to look at Vasiliĭ instead. "Sam has been found and taken by the Watcher, Samyaza, across the great sea to the west. Castiel, Rascha and Ruane were ambushed by soldiers close to Penemue's home. Rascha was killed. Ruane is injured, but she lives."

"And Casteel?" Vasiliĭ forced the words past the constriction in his chest at the news of his daughter.

"He was injured also, but not so badly." Valenis stared at Vasiliĭ. "Do you know if Dean is on his way back from the Wolf's Mouth?"

The leader shrugged. "He should be."

"We cannot let him go, not until Castiel and Ruane have returned. Penemue was very clear about Castiel's feeling about this, Dean cannot go alone after his brother."

Vasiliĭ nodded, grimacing slightly as he thought of the younger man's reaction. "He will not like to be told what to do."

Valenis made a sharp gesture. "That is too bad. He must wait."

Alis looked from her mother to the leader. "He is not stupid. He will not go without help."

Valenis looked at her daughter, one brow lifted at the certainty in her voice. "I hope that you are right, Alis. It would be poor hospitality indeed to have to lock him up."


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

* * *

The sharp ridge was high enough to catch the last of the sun and Dean stopped, staring south, finally picking out the square shape of the signal fire on the distant peak. He lifted the silver disc, angling it to catch the light and flash it toward the peak, unconsciously flashing three short, then three long, then three short again. _Come on, look at me_, he stared at the peak, aware that he was straining to hear any sound from behind them, that his nerves were twitching, sweat crawling down his spine. _Look at me, and light the friggin' fire_. Three short, three long, three short. Three short, three long, three short.

Lev raised his head, his skin pale and damp with sweat, his gaze fixed on the peak. They both heard the faint snort from behind at the same time, Dean's head snapping around to check the trail, Lev's eyes narrowing as he stared at the peak.

"Dean, I can see smoke, they've lit it."

"About freaking time. Let's go." He tucked the pendant back into his shirt, pushing his horse into a trot, then a canter as they headed down the road southward. He looked back again, seeing two horses, then a third, crest the ridge, outlined against the deep red of the sunlit clouds behind them and shook his head, forcing his horse into a gallop.

The light faded quickly and he slowed down as they started to climb the next slope, unable to see their pursuers but knowing they were there, somewhere in the shadows behind them. He let the horses drop to a walk. They needed somewhere safe to get off the road for an hour or so, somewhere they could rest the horses and he could do something about Lev's leg. There wasn't much on this side of the tunnel. An ambush? He didn't think he'd have much luck with that, in the darkness, unable to draw his bow even halfway.

As they came around the curve of the peak, he could see the signal fire blazing against the rapidly darkening sky, the sight flooding him with a physical relief. Elbek would get to the tunnel, and blow it, he thought, before the demons behind them could get there. _Probably before we can get there either_, a distant voice in his mind remarked. He didn't care about that. So long as the tunnel was closed to the army behind him, his job was done.

He sensed rather than saw Lev sliding sideways off his horse, and his hand flashed out, fingertips closing on the sleeve of the young man's shirt, scrabbling to hold onto it, tightening and drawing him back before Lev's dead weight pulled him down. Still holding onto him, Dean nudged his horse closer, shifting his grip and looking around for anywhere to take him. He looked back down the trail and saw their pursuers, holding torches now.

_Well, that'll wreck your night vision_, he thought, catching his lip between his teeth, watching the flames shift and flicker with the movement of the horses carrying them. He was about to turn away when the movement stopped, the flames rising straight and steady, then dropping down, closer to the ground. _Finally stopping for the night? That really would be too good to be true_. He watched as the torches were dropped to the ground, seeing the soldiers and the horses in the bright circle of light, unsaddling, making a fire.

He turned back to the trail, nudging his horse forward again. It could be a trick, he thought, making a big song and dance about setting up a camp and then sneaking forward through the darkness. Whether it was or not, he couldn't sit here and watch them forever, he had to take chance on them needing the rest more than he and Lev did, and staying put for at least an hour. If he could get them a bit further away, and then fix up Lev's wound, they could have a short break and keep going. A little further along, just as the road started to descend on the other side of the next ridge, there had been a small narrow cave, off to one side. It wasn't great but it would have to do.

* * *

Castiel stopped as silence dropped over the woods like a blanket. Ruane looked around, listening. After a few moments, they both heard the noises, coming from ahead of them on the narrow forest trail. Ruane backed her horse into the trees, fading from the path almost silently. Castiel turned the grey and rode deeper, behind the thick evergreen leaves of a spreading, sprawling yew. They sat, still and scarcely breathing as the noises got closer, resolving into the creak of leather and the clink of armour, seeing the shadows of the riders passing on the other side of the heavy foliage. Neither moved until the sounds had faded to silence and they could once again hear the birdsong and rustles of the creatures of the woods going about their business.

"That was the second party today, Cas." Ruane's voice was barely above a whisper. The angel nodded.

"How are we going to be able to avoid them?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but we must." He nudged the grey forward, glancing back to see Ruane following.

They had gone further west when they'd left Deep Ice and seen no one. If it wasn't for the need to get back as quickly as possible, he would have turned off the road immediately. But aside from the extra time it would take, the two living travellers they'd met on the road had both told them the same thing, the western mountains were full of Scythians as well. They had little choice but to do as they were doing, find a good hiding place in the day, sleep and rest, ride at night and hope that they could avoid the scouts and raiding parties and ambushes.

Ruane found the small cabin two hours later, deep within the woods. She'd dismounted and checked the entire area, seeing no prints around it, the firewood sitting against the southern wall dry and weathered, the floor inside covered with leaves and dust, at least a year's worth, she thought. They led the horses down the deer trails, approaching the cabin obliquely through the forest, crossing the stream twice to hide their tracks. Even with bone dry wood, lighting a fire would be taking too great a chance, and they ate the moistened flatbread and fruit picked wild from the forest. The horses, hobbled, but otherwise loose, grazed the long grass in the clearing between the cabin and the small stream, and they settled down on their bedrolls on the floor.

Castiel lay on his back, staring at the aged timber rafters above. It was ridiculous to think about Guin now, he thought irritably, when their lives where in danger, when their route was so perilous. Still, the thoughts of the quiet woman kept creeping into his mind. After several attempts to clear his mind for sleep, he gave up, rolling onto his side.

"Ruane?"

"What is it, Cas?" Her voice was clear, and he thought she must also be having trouble finding sleep.

"How do you feel about Sam?"

The silence from the other bed made him wonder if the question had been too personal, or impolite.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked such a private-"

"No, it is not that, Casteel." Ruane rolled onto her elbow, looking at the angel. "I suppose I love him, although it is the first time I've thought that about anyone."

"What makes you think that it is love then?"

She laughed softly. "I think of him often, every day, and hope that he is well, not injured, not … unhappy. Sometimes I cannot shut him from my thoughts at all, even if I should be concentrating on something else. I am happy when he is here, near me, and sad and lonely when he is not." She looked down at the smooth fur that lay over her. "I think of Midsummer's Eve, and what we did together, and how it felt to see the same things in his eyes and face the following day."

"And those things mean that you love him?"

"I suppose so. I haven't felt this way about anyone else." She looked up at him. "Is that the way you feel about Guin?"

He rolled onto his back, closing his eyes. He thought of their conversations, easy and comfortable, of the way her eyes wrinkled up a little when she smiled, more when she laughed, he thought of the softness of her hair, and the smell of her skin, and the way her fingers moved so quickly and competently with the yarn and the wheel and the loom, and the way he felt when he was inside of her, and she looked at him, eyes half-closed. "Yes, I think so."

"I didn't know angels could love, Casteel."

He sighed deeply. "I don't think I'm an angel any more, Ruane."

* * *

Sam looked around nervously, his eyes wide, trying to penetrate the darkness between the trees, the shadows under the thick undergrowth. Something was tracking them, he could feel it, something that moved only when his gaze was turned elsewhere, stopping when he scanned his surroundings, something that was silent and almost invisible and hungry.

Ahead, Samyaza was apparently oblivious to the signs that they were being followed, riding without looking around at all, focussed on his primary task, presumably. The Scythians surrounding him seemed to be more edgy, watching the darkness warily, but he thought, without that instinctual awareness that the soldiers would have had if demons had not been riding them.

He kept his eyes on the back of the soldier in front of him, seeing the flutter of movement from the corner of his eye again, this time to the right of the column. The forest was silent, more so than when they'd entered, the horses' footfalls soft on the thick covering of decaying matter that covered the trail. He looked at the ears of his mount, seeing them flick back and forth.

The quarter moon rode in the skies above them, but under the trees it was black, the canopies still fully leaved, letting only a very few stray beams through. He shifted in the saddle, clinking the chains against each other, his nerves beginning to crawl.

There was a sharp snort from a horse behind him, and he twisted around, eyes widening as he saw the empty saddle two rows back, and at the same time the soldier next to the riderless horse realised his companion was missing, shouting out.

They stopped, staring around at the trees. Samyaza wheeled his horse around and rode to the back, looking at the empty saddle.

"You must have seen something!"

"No, my lord, I was watching the trees, along this side, and I heard the horse and looked and he was gone." The soldier's eyes were black across, and Sam stared at him, wondering if the demon were afraid. Bound to the flesh of the men, they couldn't get out if the body was killed, not even when it was fully decomposed, Cas had told him a long time ago. After centuries of torture in Hell, he'd thought that demons were only afraid of one thing, being sent back there, but perhaps being locked into solitary confinement for eternity was something else they feared.

Samyaza scanned the dark forest slowly, his gaze crossing Sam's and stopping for a moment.

"You know something of this?"

Sam shrugged. "Something has been hunting us for the last two hours."

"What?"

"I don't know."

The Watcher scowled, then looked at the soldiers. "Close up together, pay attention."

He pushed his mount forward, coming up beside Sam. "Protect the prisoner at all times."

Sam smiled humourlessly as they moved on again. He didn't think it would help. He should have been feeling terror, he thought as he watched the soldiers ahead of him, but he felt nothing, as if his feelings, his normal, human feelings, had all been cauterised. Maybe they had.

The next soldier was taken from between two others, right in front of him. He saw a flicker of movement, a second's moonlight on pale skin, then the soldier was gone, and his scream filled the air for a heartbeat and was cut off, the silence ringing around them afterward.

The horses had shied and run into each other, tossing their heads at a scent that filled the air for a moment, then vanished. He knew that scent as well, the rich coppery tang was as familiar as the smell of gun oil, or whiskey.

Samyaza twisted in the saddle, looking back, and Sam saw uncertainty on his face.

"Ride, fast, we'll outrun it."

The demons needed no further urging and Sam reached forward and gripped his mount's mane as they took off, a surge of horses and men, filling the road, the horses feeling the terror of the men and following their own instincts to flee.

They flashed past the trees, through the darkness, the soft thunder of the horses' hooves and the rattle of harness and armour, the rasping breath of the soldier beside him, and the blowing of the horses, the only sounds he could hear. He looked straight ahead, but his peripheral vision kept picking up the glimpses of movement, of gleam and wink and difference in the darkness to either side of the road.

He felt the strength in the hands that gripped him, heard the chains snap as he was lifted from his horse in an upward rush, smelled the rank thick stench of fresh and older blood in a series of disconnected impressions, faster than he could register them, then everything vanished.

* * *

_Lost a lot of blood_, Dean looked at the wound, and the blood that had soaked the leather pants from thigh to boot. He cut the sticky leather away from the cut, exhaling softly in relief as he saw the blood trickling out slowly. _Not the artery, just the muscle_.

He'd cut several pieces from his shirt, and had made a strong saline solution to wash the wound, wishing he had alcohol of any description here as well. The cut was long and deep and needed to be stitched, he thought as he cleaned the blood from the skin, squeezing the solution along its length, flushing out the debris from the middle. He had nothing that could do it. Another thing to put on the list of must-haves.

When the muscle was clean, he drew the edges together as tightly as he could, laying the salt-soaked cloth dressing over them, and holding it all tightly as he wound the bandage around the limb awkwardly with his left hand, the movement, as small as it was, tearing again the hole in his shoulder. He looked down at Lev when it was tight and tied off. The young man's face was pale, beaded with sweat. Dean pulled his bedroll from his saddle, covering Lev with the thick fur blanket and moving back outside to get food from the saddle bags. Ideally, he would light a fire and make something hot for the hunter, something to counteract the shock. Ideally, he would have cut off the hunter's pants and done a proper job on the leg. Ideally, Lev would be lying on a soft, comfortable bed being tended to by Valenis. He scowled in frustration as he listened to the darkness. Ideally, he wouldn't have been injured at all.

He found flatbread and dried fruit and took them into the cave, moistening the bread and putting the fruit into clean water, to soften slightly. Lifting Lev's shoulders, he eased him up and propped him against the sloping rock of the cave wall. The hunter opened his eyes and looked down at the food, taking a handful of the fruit and chewing it slowly, his eyes closing again.

Dean walked back outside, finding a vantage point that looked down over the trail. He settled himself against the rock, looking up at the clear night sky and picking a star that was close to a distant peak. His watch was packed away in his room, along with his gun and clothes, and he'd learned to use the sun and stars to gauge the passing of time. He wasn't as practised yet as most of the villagers, but he was usually within a half hour or so, and in this life that was all the accuracy that was needed. Looking out into the night, he watched, not trying to see anything in particular, but looking for movement, for changes in the darkness that would give him warning of approach.

He couldn't give Lev more than a couple of hours of rest. It was almost twenty miles to the Wolf's Mouth. If Elbek was already moving, he would be there by late afternoon tomorrow.

He wondered how Sam and Cas were doing, down in the desert. Or if they were already on their way back, hopefully with a buttload of information about what the hell was going on, and how they could they stop it. The one thing everyone had seemed to agree about was that there could be no mortal born from the union of an angel and a demon, but the prophecy itself had been pretty specific about it. Angels didn't have reproductive organs, unless they fell, he thought. A fallen angel and a demon? Or just a fallen angel and a demon possessing a person? Did the qualities of a demon become entwined enough with those they possessed to pass along?

They must, he realised, remembering Jesse Turner. Half-breed, Cas had called him, and more powerful than angels. Did that mean that an angel's half-breed offspring would also be more powerful than the angels themselves?

He shook his head tiredly. Theoretical biology hadn't interested him in school, the practical applications had been a different matter, but they weren't much help to finding answers to the questions he had. Theological biology was of even less interest.

He looked up at the sky, seeing the position of the stars had altered slightly. _And that's all the time we have, folks_. He got up, and walked to the horses, tightening the girths and taking off the hobbles, then walked into the cave.

Lev was asleep, the half-eaten bread still loosely held in one hand. Dean crouched beside him, and shook him lightly. The hunter's eyes opened slowly. There was a little more colour in his face, Dean thought, looking at him critically. _Only another couple of days of riding, my friend, and you can rest. We both can_.

He slid his arm around the hunter's shoulders and Lev sat up, rolling to one hip as Dean lifted him to his feet.

"We've got to keep going. The demons are camped a couple of ridges back, but that might be just for show."

Lev nodded and limped alongside Dean as they came out of the cave to the horses.

"You gonna stay in the saddle?" Dean looked up at him, when he was more or less settled.

"Yes, the pain is better, not feeling so dizzy now." Lev picked up the reins as Dean mounted.

"We can take it easy for a while, anyway."

They rode back up to the road, turning south, Lev's horse leading the way, Dean following behind him, his attention divided between the road ahead and the road behind.

* * *

Castiel and Ruane stood within the treeline on edge of the long slope, the horses standing quietly behind them, looking down at the town.

What remained of the town, Castiel amended. The small valley had been productive and had been flourishing, judging by the number of houses and buildings down there. Now there was nothing left but burned out remains, the very stones blackened and brittle with the ferocity of the fires that had been set among them. The fields and orchards and vineyards that had surrounded the small town were grey and filled with ash, swirling slightly as a breeze came down the mountain and stirred it.

And so.

Kokabiel was being thorough.

"Could anyone have survived?" Ruane whispered beside him. He could hear despair in her voice, an edge of desperation, a longing to hear that it wasn't as bad as it looked.

"No." He looked at her. "No, this army will leave no survivors. They are hunting for someone who is to be killed," he looked back down at the valley, "and they will kill everyone to ensure that death."

She closed her eyes, feeling her tears filling her throat. This then, was the way it was. The way it would be. As a child, listening to winter tales, she had accepted evil, never knowing what it looked like, not really even being able to imagine it. But here it was, and she realised that it was destruction, wanton and chaotic. Sam had told her that Lucifer wanted to destroy humankind. Wipe them from the face of the earth. If they didn't stop it, then everywhere would look like this.

"We need to go west, through the wild forest on the high slopes." Castiel turned his head.

Ruane lifted her head and nodded. Between the boreal forest and the higher alpine forests, no one went. The way was dangerous and rough, but better than facing an army of demons.

They mounted and rode down through the woods, skirting the open ground and crossing the road that had led to the town quickly. Ahead of them, visible as they rode up the valley's end and over the low saddle dividing the peaks, they could see the wilderness, stretching out northward, hundreds of miles of woods. Ruane shivered looking at it. Her father had gone through this forest when he'd been young, and looking for adventure. His tales had always frightened her, but she'd begged to hear them again and again anyway.

The leaves were falling, here and there. Looking up at the branches it was hard to see that any were missing, but the ground was covered in their drifts and they crackled and rustled and sighed as the horses strode through them.

They followed game trails, staying away from the wider tracks and roads, climbing up and down along the varying slopes, dismounting to find ways across streams and creeks that cut down the side of the mountain, tangled with wild blackberry and raspberry, with branches and fallen trees and thick coppice of alder and yew. They saw bear, and in the night heard the wolf music from higher up the mountains. Once, late in the night, she heard a deep rumbling roar, far off to the north.

They had been riding through the forest for almost a week, when Ruane saw the smoke rising ahead, through a gap in the trees as they crested high ground. The forest was burning, from halfway down the mountainside to the foothills that followed the coastline of the sea, the flames leapt from tree top to tree top, and smoke rose black and grey and white into the air.

"Look." Castiel said softly, pointing to an area that had already been burned out. Ruane stared at the movement through the empty smoking ground, horses and men moving upward toward the living forest. She heard a deep roar and started, recognising it as the same as the one she'd heard in the night.

"What is that?"

Castiel shook his head. "I don't know. We need to get higher, though."

He looked up the steep slope, then across the next valley. A difference in the colours of the foliage showed a narrow trail. "There, we'll follow that and get up to the snowline."

They mounted and hurried down the trail, finding the new path as they crossed the stream that ran fast down the steep valley, and dismounting to lead the horses over the rocky ground. They could smell the smoke now, as the wind blew it toward them, acrid and pungent.

"If the wind gets any stronger, it will bring the fire this way. We need to hurry, Ruane."

She nodded, panting slightly as she struggled up over the rocks, trying to find the easiest way for the horses following.

The deep shudder of the ground under their feet was a shock and they stopped, staring at each other, as another followed it. The horses threw their heads up, nostrils flaring as the shudders continued, the trees and shrubs trembling around them, each small temblor seeming to gain strength, as if the tremors were approaching them.

Castiel frowned, staring at the ground. "That's not an earthquake."

Ruane turned to him, and froze. From the north, along the slope, they could hear cracking and splintering, rustling and thuds and crashes, something moving through the trees, something big enough to knock them down, and trample them underfoot.

* * *

_Come on_, Dean lay on his stomach, hands shading his eyes as he looked east along the road. The Scythians were still following them, had closed the gap in the night. The sun hadn't yet risen, the sky grey to his right, still a deep indigo to the west. They'd ridden through the night, taking it easy on the horses, mostly walking, stopping every hour or so to let them graze.

Ten more miles, he thought, rolling over and getting to his feet. The soldiers were two or three miles behind them, tracking them, he thought. He didn't think they'd been seen yet.

He ran back up the road to the horses, taking the reins from Lev and mounting, wheeling his horse around on the track. "They're about two miles behind. We need to go faster, Lev."

Lev looked at him and nodded. He was sweating again, and Dean could see the blood had started to soak through the dressing again, as the cloth of the bandage had loosened and released some of the pressure. _Goddammit_, he thought, _just a little break, every once in a while, is that too much to ask?_

Lev turned his horse and started to canter along the road, Dean following. He'd never ridden an endurance race, but he knew what was needed. They could keep this speed up for a mile or so, then they'd have to walk again, let the horses recover their wind, eat a little and then push harder again. The Impala drifted into his mind and he grimaced, pushing the thought of her away. Wouldn't make this road, anyway.

He glanced behind two hours later and saw them cresting the ridge line behind them. _No more than a mile now_, he thought, wiping the sweat from his hair, and pushing his horse on again. The twin peaks of the pass were visible ahead, rising higher than those they still had to cross to get there. _Come on, come on_, his thoughts beat in time with the hoofbeats on the road. Ahead of him, Lev swayed in the saddle, and he edged closer to him.

They dropped back to a trot as the road descended again, the sunshine hot in the still valley, startling a fox and her cubs as they clattered past. Dean could feel his horse slowing, the efforts of the last two days with little food or rest taking its toll. He rubbed his hand along her neck, under the thick, springy mane, reassuringly. _Not long now, not far to go_.

He wasn't sure if that was the truth. He hoped it was.

Lev was definitely swaying from side to side now, and Dean swore softly, riding up beside him. The hunter was almost unconscious, the reins loose and lying on his horse's neck, the dressing on his leg now bright red. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the Scythian horses trotting down the long descent behind them. _God no, not this freaking close_. He looked at Lev, and pulled the horses up, dragging and lifting the hunter from the gelding onto his mare, in front of him, shifting backwards against the cantle and wrapping his left arm around the hunter's ribs, hoping that his grip would hold. He pushed the mare forward, from a jog into a canter, then harder as he heard the thunder of hooves coming up behind them.

The mare lengthened her stride, stretching out her neck, as they galloped up the agonisingly long slope, Lev's horse galloping beside her, reins and stirrups flapping wildly, ears pressed back. Dean looked over Lev's shoulder as they cleared the crest. A mile, at most, to the tunnel. He drove his heels into the mare's sides, his eyes tracking over the top of the tunnel as she thundered down the slope. On the top, against the blue sky, he could see a figure, waving wildly. _Elbek_, he hoped. He leaned forward, and shouted to the horses, feeling them reach deep for that last bit of energy and accelerate a little more.

The hoofbeats behind him receded a bit, but he couldn't look around. As they tore up the slope to the tunnel he could hear faint shouting somewhere ahead or above. He kept his eyes on the dark entrance to the tunnel, counting down the distance in his head, hoping that there would be reinforcements at the other end.

They shot into the dimness, the details of the tunnel lost in their speed and against the brightness of the far end. Dean was vaguely aware that they were almost halfway through, and that he could hear hoofbeats behind him when the first explosive went off.

The noise in the high, narrow tunnel was unbelievable. He felt the mare leap forward, saw Lev's gelding miss a stride and almost fall, then recover and accelerate past them. He couldn't hear anything, could only see the bright opening ahead of him, getting larger as they got closer. Then the second bomb went off, the sound more muffled this time, but the effects worse, as the stone above them creaked and groaned, shedding dust and stalactites from the concussive wave through the rock bridge. He veered to one side as a dozen stone spears dropped to the ground in front of him, reining the mare back the other way as a couple more shook and trembled and dropped on the other side.

In the quiet of his mind, he counted, and each casing blew behind them, but the timing was getting closer. The roiling cloud of dust passed him, and visibility went to zero, breathing was impossible, he felt his mare falter and then pick up her stride again, as she desperately tried to reach clean air.

* * *

Elbek, Kiya and Geny stood to one side of the tunnel, holding their horses and watched the loose horse rocket out of the tunnel's end as the last bomb detonated and the fresh dust cloud rolled out, filling the road and spreading out to either side. Elbek stared at the mouth of the tunnel disbelievingly, waiting, trying to see through the dust.

Dimly through the white cloud he saw a horse jump the rocks at the mouth of the tunnel, turning away from the road, heading toward them, horse and riders coated from end to end with thick white dust.

"Whoa, whoa there, girl." He stepped into her path as she dropped to a trot and then a walk, shaking her head and snorting.

"Dean?" Kiya walked to the other side of the mare, reaching up as Geny came up behind her, the two of them pulling Dean from the saddle first, then Lev. She laid her fingers against Dean's neck, nodding abruptly and turning away from him to see to Lev.

"Get water, Elbek, Geny. And saplings, we'll need to make a litter for Lev."

Dean opened his eyes slowly, squinting as the dust that coated them made them water. "We make it?"


	29. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

* * *

Dripping water. Cold stone. Darkness. The sweetish sour odour of decay, distant but underlying it all.

Sam opened his eyes and tried to lift his head.

Pain. A throbbing bulge behind one eye. A sharper ache in his neck.

He lifted his hand and touched the skin there, feeling the ragged edges, the soft warm liquid.

He didn't hear anything, but he felt it come into the room. He opened his eyes again, slightly, and started back when the face filled his vision, inches from him.

The skull was long, the skin covering it pale and shining, smooth as polished stone, without a line or hair or blemish. The eyes, deepset in the sockets, were dark, filmed thinly by a reddish tint over the whites. The long nose was hooked, the mouth beneath thin-lipped and a vivid red, the lips shining with blood.

"The pain will go."

The voice was faint, harsh, the words running into each other, thick and liquid, despite Castiel's translation spell. A gust of breath from the mouth blew over him, and his throat closed, his chest hitching as he gagged at the fetid reek filling his nostrils and mouth.

"You don't taste as bad as the others, but still not human, not quite human." The face drew back, and he felt cool, thin fingers skate over his wrist and hand.

"Demon blood." Sam looked up cautiously, waiting for the pain to explode in his head again. It didn't, and he opened his eyes a little more.

"Ah."

He didn't see the creature move, but it was on the other side of him now.

"And why are the demons loosed from Tuonela?"

Sam frowned at the word, unsure of its meaning. "A mage is trying to raise the dead, to bring an evil creature to walk on the earth."

"Evil creature? An evil creature … like me … perhaps?" The vampyre moved again, and Sam felt its breath against his cheek.

"More evil than you."

"More evil than me?" It considered the words carefully, drawing away from him again. "I am very evil. I take life."

"This creature wants to take all life. All humans. All creatures."

"So?" The inflexion on the word was unusual.

He lay still, feeling his blood pooling in the hollow between his collarbone and the muscles of his shoulder. Dean would be pissed, if he found out that after all they'd been through, everything they'd done, and fought and survived, his brother had let himself be killed by a plain old vampire. But, the thought snuck in slyly, Lucifer wouldn't have his vessel if he bought it here, hidden in this lair, dead and rotting.

"And what do you know of this, mortal?"

"The soldiers, the demons that you took me from, they were taking me to be … for the ritual to raise the evil creature." He tried to see where the vampyre was, but the light seemed to go around it, he could see bits … the winged brow and the gleam of skin over the bone of the temple, a long fold in the dark robes, one long curving fingernail, thickened and ridged like a claw, but not all of it, not at the same time.

"A ritual." Again, the vampyre seemed to savour the words. Sam wondered how old it was, how long it had lived alone here in the dark, taking only those who passed through the forest.

"And if I drain you, leave you as an empty husk, what then?" The voice was next to his ear, soft as a whisper of silk across skin.

"Then the creature will not be able to be born, and life will go on," he said quietly, not knowing if that were true.

"You look for death's embrace, mortal?" The vampyre's face was over him again, the red-rimmed eyes looking into his own, the noxious breath on his lips. "To take away pain? To take away choice?"

Sam closed his eyes, thinking of a woman, lying dead in a forest, next to a dark-skinned hunter and an angel. He'd loved Jess so much that he'd thought he'd never heal from her loss. Ruane had been a surprise to him. Completely different, yet there were similarities between the two women … strength, and compassion, and a way of looking past the surface to what lay beneath. He couldn't face losing his second chance, couldn't imagine finding anyone else again who saw past what had been done to him, what he'd done to himself, and love him in spite of it all, because of it all.

"Yes." It was barely a breath, but he knew that the vampyre had heard it. He felt the cold breath against the side of his neck, felt the prick of the long nails driving into his shoulder, felt the excruciating pain of the teeth sinking into him.

* * *

Castiel stared up in surprise. It had been a long time since he'd seen any of the Titans walking on Earth. They were not gods, of course. Merely people of a slightly different genetic makeup. Hesiod had glimpsed them, three hundred years ago, crossing the Mediterranean Sea to Africa, and had written about them then. He'd thought they'd migrated south and then died out.

The giant looked down at them, blonde brows beetled in anger. He let out a deafening roar of rage, and bent down to sweep them aside. Castiel and Ruane dragged the horses from the road, as the hand swept past, generating a localised wind that bent the saplings by the sides of the trail almost to the ground.

"Demonspawn!" The giant's voice boomed at them, and the angel looked around in frustration, knowing the giant would bring the Scythians down on them if he couldn't get him to shut up.

He tied the horses and ran out into the road, as the giant leaned over suddenly, huge hands gripping Ruane and lifting her out of the trees. She struggled against the impossible grip, the fingers wrapped around her hips and waist felt like stone, each one the size of a sapling.

"You're a woman."

She looked up into the massive face, five times larger than her own, and nodded.

"Demons don't possess women."

Ruane wondered distractedly if that were true, or if the giant had only seen the possessed Scythians and had no other experience to go on. She felt her stomach rise as she was lifted abruptly higher and closer to the giant's face, his eyes almost crossed as he looked at something on her chest.

"Where did you get that?" The eyes lifted to hers again, and she looked down, at the round pin that held her cloak.

"My father gave it to me."

The blonde brows drew together again. "Your father?"

She nodded, clamping her teeth together as she was lowered fast to the ground.

"Vasiliĭ Chernyĭ is your father?"

She nodded again, her fingers rising unconsciously to touch the pin. She was astonished to see the giant's wide mouth curve and lift.

"I met your father, here in these woods, a long time ago. I gave him that pin."

"You're Astraeus?" Ruane looked up at him, remembering the giant from her father's tales. "I thought … it was a tale for a child, I thought he made that up."

The corners of the giant's mouth quirked higher. "No."

He looked behind him, at the burning forest. "Why are you here? This is dangerous land now."

"We're trying to get to our village." She pointed north and east. "The demon army has overrun the road through the mountains, we thought it would be safer this way."

"You thought wrong, then." Astraeus looked north. "They have spread like a plague all along the western forests, driving everything out before them. They are looking for a man, they say."

Castiel nodded. "Yes. We heard that as well."

"How do you think you are going to get past them?"

"Over the peaks. They have many men enslaved but even with so many they cannot watch every trail, guard every path through the mountains."

Astraeus crouched down, and looked at them. "No, that is true. And the main force of the army is still on the eastern flank of the mountains."

"Why were you heading south?"

"I wasn't 'heading' anywhere deliberately. I was trying to get away from the fire."

Castiel looked up the trail they'd been heading for. "We are taking that trail, over the rock."

Astraeus turned to look at the trail. "On the narrow side for me." He looked at the stream. "I will follow the stream, and meet you beyond the treeline."

"It would be better to leave as little indication of where we've gone as possible." Castiel looked back to the stream, the soft ground on both sides would give the giant's path away.

"True. But very few people recognise my footprints as tracks." The giant looked more closely at the angel. "Do I know you? You seem very familiar to me."

"I knew your mother, briefly," Castiel said shortly, gesturing to the trail. "We don't have much time, the path you left will not be difficult to follow."

Astraeus laughed softly. Behind him, the trees had been smashed down or pushed over, the undergrowth trampled deep into the earth and rock. It looked as if a giant had run through the forest.

"Your animals will slow us down." Astraeus looked down his nose at the horses.

"Perhaps, but we will need their speed once we're past the army." Castiel looked away, thinking of Dean's impatience, of the pressure he would be feeling to go looking for Sam as soon as possible. He hoped Valenis would be able to hold him.

The giant shrugged, standing. Ruane looked up. When he'd held her, she'd thought it was a long way to the ground, but now she could see that he was only half the height of the big trees, barely a third of the oldest ones. That was bearable, she thought, her mind already adjusting from disbelief to acceptance, that was thinkable.

* * *

Dean looked up as he rode down the track toward the village walls, seeing the torches lit on the palisade, the big fires on either side of the gates. He'd been gone for a little over a week but it had felt like a month. Eating cooked food again, sleeping in a bed again, he tipped his head back and stretched out the muscles of his neck and back, careful with his left side, feeling the responsibilities he'd held for the past eight days sliding off his shoulders.

Lev had remained with Kiya and Elbek in Black River. He would be moved when he had recovered enough to travel. The pass had been more than closed, he thought with a deep contentment, it had been sealed. The limestone bridge had collapsed completely, filling the gap between the peaks from end to end, effectively stopping any possibility of the army being able to come across in force. They could come without their horses, but he didn't think they would. They would go around, try and find some other way to get to the villages.

He raised his hand as he got close enough to the guards to be recognised, watching with approval the line of arrows aimed at him, and heard the bars being slid back from the brackets inside the gates. It was good to be home.

The gate opened, and he rode through, pulling up in surprise as he saw Vasiliĭ, closely followed by Alis, hurrying down the half-paved path from the keep, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he saw the expression on the leader's face.

"What's wrong?" He glanced at Alis, as she took the reins of his horse.

"Come." Vasiliĭ looked up at him, and Dean slid from the horse, Alis leading it toward the barn as soon as he was on the ground. He watched her go, then turned back to the other man.

"What?"

"Valenis has heard from Penemue." Vasiliĭ turned away, striding up the path, forcing Dean to follow him.

"And? Did he say if they got the information?" He lengthened his stride to catch up to Vasiliĭ.

"Yes, but there were … complications."

"Vasiliĭ." Dean stopped as they reached the doors. "Tell me."

"Inside, Dean. You need to eat, and you might as well do that while you listen, yes?"

He turned away, going into the hall and Dean followed him, feeling the flutter in his stomach. Whatever the news was, it wasn't good. The leader of Deep Ice had no talent for prevarication and was uncomfortable with whatever it was he had to tell him. He pushed away his mind's speculations and found a place next to Vasiliĭ at the table. His misgivings grew as he saw Valenis walking toward them determinedly. Double-barrelled assault, he thought, his appetite vanishing at the expressions on their faces.

"Come on, tell me." He looked from Vasiliĭ to Valenis as she down opposite him.

"Penemue contacted me in the water, Dean. Sam was captured in the desert, as they were making their way back from the Watchers. Castiel and Penemue think it was Samyaza. He was moved very quickly through the desert and mountains, and the Watcher took him by boat across the Black Sea."

Dean felt the information rolling over him, his mind trying to sort out the implications, the ominous overtones, both of what Valenis was saying, and the seriousness of her expression.

"Why? Why would they take Sam?" He looked at her, then at Vasiliĭ.

"Castiel said that the prophecy, a mortal born of angel and demon, referred to Sam. Your lineage, your ancestors, were Watchers. Sam being given the demon blood made him a part demon, possibly. Penemue told me that Sam couldn't cross the Watcher's door, because of the demon trap they have there." She stumbled a little over the explanation, not really understanding all of it herself, coming secondhand through the Watcher via the water which only transmitted images, not words. She could see he was struggling to take it in. "Castiel says that Sam is descended from angels, and has demon blood also."

Dean looked away, his eyes dark and unfocussed as he tried to assimilate this. They were from a line of angels? How was that possible? Sam was, again, Lucifer's vessel? What did that make him? Was Michael going to appear and insist that they pick up where they left off in the twenty first century? He shook his head.

"This is … Valenis, are you sure that's what he said?" He looked at her, and she felt her heart contract at the plea far back in his eyes.

"Yes." She moistened her lips, trying to think of words that would help make it clearer to him, easier to bear. "When the Watchers fell, they had families, with human woman. The children of those unions were the nephilim, considered cursed by some, blessed by others. They had children of their own, and so the lines were formed. Castiel said that only those of the lines of the Watchers could be angelic vessels. He told me that you and Sam had two lines of angels in your lineage. From your mother's side, Azazel, the corrupt. And from your father's side, Araquiel."

He started at the name of the yellow-eyed demon, his face hardening as he looked away.

"If we're both descended from them, why is it always Sam who Lucifer wants? Why not me?" He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the familiar frustration and anger rising inside of him. Heaven and Hell, fucking with his life, even in a time when no one even believed in them.

"I do not know, Dean. When Castiel returns, he may have the answer that you seek."

He looked down at the table. "When he returns?"

"He is on his way back now. Ruane is with him," Vasiliĭ said very quietly.

Dean frowned. "What about Rascha? Where's he?"

"He was killed, by Scythians, close to Penemue's home."

He looked at her, his expression suddenly bleak and cold. Enough. It was enough. Too many people had died because of him and Sam, he didn't know how to stop it, he didn't know if the curse that followed them was responsible, but he'd had enough of it all.

"The northern pass is closed." He looked at Vasiliĭ. "The harvest is in, the villages have the traps and defences and the blood metal."

Valenis stared at him. "You cannot leave here until Castiel returns, Dean."

He didn't look at her, his attention fixed on Vasiliĭ's face. "I'm sorry, but I can't stay for this, I can't help you with what's coming. I have to find Sam, I have to find my brother, and we -," his voice faltered as a storm of emotion rose up in him, "- we have to stop this."

He felt a hand curve around his arm, and turned. Alis sat beside him, her eyes on his.

"Can I talk to you?"

He looked down at her hand, about to shake it off, then raised his eyes, meeting hers. There was a warning in them, and the strength of that tacit request quelled the tempest inside of him, cutting through thought and emotion. "Yeah. Sure."

He followed her out of the hall, not looking at Valenis or Vasiliĭ as he left.

"What?"

"Listen to me, just for a moment, with your whole attention." She looked up at him. "They will lock you up, to keep you here." She glanced back toward the hall. "You know how my mother feels about Castiel, his is the ultimate authority in her eyes, because he is an angel. She will not let you go, because he has told her not to."

He stared down at her, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "You think they can take me, Alis? I'm not that easy."

She closed her eyes. "They will take you one way or the other, if you fight."

He was silent for a moment, knowing she was right. How could he fight these people? He had found a home here, a refuge and a place where he wasn't a freak, where he could be himself. He wouldn't fight them, not Vasiliĭ, not Valenis, not the warriors and hunters here who were his friends. "The alternative being?"

"Penemue said that Castiel and Ruane left ten days ago. They will not be able to come up the road through the mountains, they will have to find safer routes. They should be back in less than a week, even going down by the sea. Tell my mother that you will stay for a week, after that it would seem likely that they have been captured or killed."

"Sam will be hundreds of miles further away if I stay here for a week." He turned away, panic rising again.

"Yes, maybe. But if you are locked up here, unable to do anything, is that any improvement?"

"It's almost October, if I wait around, then I'll have to deal with the snow as well as everything else."

"No matter if you left tonight, you will still have to face the winter, Dean. Penemue told my mother that Samyaza was taking Sam far to the north, into the sea of ice that lies at the edge of the world."

He stared at her, the words dropping into him like stones. The edge of the world. How the fuck was he supposed to find Sam? He shook his head impatiently, thrusting the doubt away. He'd find him, somehow. But he had to go, now.

"Goddamn it, Alis, I can't sit here for a week doing nothing. I can't." He looked past her to the hall that led down to the kitchen. "Can I go now? Before any guards are posted?"

She followed his gaze and shook her head. "The guards already know. Please, think about this. You will leave without preparation? Without food or weapons or horses?"

She watched the anger and frustration fill his face, saw his hands close into fists, the tendons standing out in his arms, as he struggled against the unpalatable choice in front of him. Sam could already be dead, he knew. He thought he'd have felt it, if he was, but he didn't know. He couldn't race out, blindly searching for him in two thousand square miles of country he didn't know.

Alis waited patiently beside him for the emotions to run their course, for him to accept that his options had run out. Leaning against the cool stone wall, she felt relief seep through her when she saw his fists finally loosen, his fingers relax and uncurl again, shoulders slump. She looked up at him as he closed his eyes and exhaled. "Why did you tell me this?"

"Because I didn't want to see you locked up, and I wasn't sure you'd see reason if you felt you were trapped between my mother and Vasiliĭ."

He opened his eyes, looking down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You thought I'd start a fight in the middle of the hall?"

She looked away. "No. Maybe. It will be better if you take the time of waiting and use it efficiently, effectively, to plan where you will go, how you can do it."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, it would."

"So, you will be calm?"

"Can't promise that, but I'll listen." He leaned back against the wall. "Will Vasiliĭ let anyone come with me?"

"That is not up to Vasiliĭ. I will come with you." She looked at him. "You need a warrior and a healer. I am both."

"This is likely to be a one-way trip." He looked at the flagged stone floor, uncertainty filling him. He didn't want anyone else to die. He couldn't do this alone, either. Not even with Cas. The distances, the terrain ... they needed someone who knew these lands.

She shrugged. "Every hunt could be that too. And I am more careful now."

He looked at her, catching something in her tone. "Are you?"

Her eyes lit with a sudden laughter. "You taught me that lesson well."

He dragged in a deep breath. "Yeah, well I won't be saving you again, don't forget that."

She nodded, the humour gone. "You are ready?"

"Yeah, let's do it."

They walked back into the hall, Alis glancing at her mother and away again. Dean sat down, and looked at Valenis.

"Better tell me everything you know."

"You will stay until Castiel returns?" She flicked a look at her daughter again.

"I'll stay for a week, Valenis." He looked at her steadily. "If he hasn't returned by then, I don't think he'll be back at all."

Valenis looked at Vasiliĭ. The leader spread his hands out, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. "I agree."

* * *

Dean found Alis in the barn, sorting through the apples that had been picked that day. She looked up as he walked over to her.

"Did Guin say she would have the winter bedrolls ready in time?"

"Yeah, she's made three, one for Cas." He looked down at the barrels of apples around them. "She has more faith in him than I do."

Alis smiled. "She loves him. She won't believe he's dead until she can see his body."

"I guess." He glanced at her and away again. "Vasiliĭ thinks we should take another warrior."

"The more swords we have, the better off we are." She turned over the apple in her hands, looking for softness, for blemishes. She'd been sorting food that would keep for the long journey for the past two days now. "But, the more of us there are, the easier we'll be to find."

"Yeah." He looked at her. "Anyone you think would be more of an asset than a liability?"

"Lyre is a good hunter, but another man would probably help more."

"Help in what way?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Men are stronger, can carry more, hit harder, just stronger. Sometimes you need strength more than speed."

"So you think we should ask someone else along?"

She looked at him, the surprise in her face genuine. "You are the leader, Dean. If you think we need someone else, then pick someone else. It isn't my place to question what you think we need."

"I'm asking for input, uh, for your opinion, here."

She thought of the country they would be going through. She'd spent the previous evening asking her mother about it as well. The population was very thin in the northern lands. And like it or not, they would be travelling in the winter, which would make it difficult to hunt, to find food. She thought they would have to leave the horses or turn them loose at some point, Valenis had talked of bog and marsh, little or no fodder for animals, vast taiga forests suited to reindeer but not horses, and to the west, tundra, plains of frozen ground and relentless wind.

"You and Castiel must go, there is no choice. But no, I do not think we need anyone else, and I cannot think of anyone who has a good reason to accompany us. This will not be an adventure."

"No." She was right about him and Cas, he thought. There was no choice for either of them, always assuming that the angel made it back in time. He wondered what her reasons for going were.

"You care very much for Sam." It wasn't really a question, but he felt her curiosity.

"Yeah. He's a pain in the ass, sometimes, but he's my little brother, so I have to look out for him."

He saw her brow rise at the word and the corner of his mouth lifted in acknowledgement. "Yeah, I know but he's four years younger than me, and we … we had a kind of strange childhood … I pretty much raised him, so I'll always see him that way." He shrugged self-consciously, uncomfortable with the admission, as if it were a weakness. He thought of how it had driven him, how vulnerable it had made both of them, and realised it was.

"You have to protect him? Keep him from harm?"

"Yeah." He sighed, those feelings were contradictory too. "It's what I do."

"You feel that way about the village too?"

"Not as strongly, maybe." He'd thought it had been the same, but when the choice came down to the wire, he'd chosen as he always had. "But yeah, I wanted to keep everyone safe here."

"You've done more than that," she said softly. "You have given them all that they need to protect themselves."

"I hope so." He knew he was going to spend a lot of time worrying about the people here, even while he was looking for his brother.

"And for you? What do you have for you?"

"What do you mean?" He shifted his position on the rail of the pen.

"You look out for everyone else, Dean. What about you? Who protects you? Who takes of you? Do you want to be the protector and that is all?"

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes and he shrugged, hiding the shock that was rippling through him. "That's what I do, it's who I am."


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

* * *

The roll of thunder was continuous, the deep sound vibrating in their teeth and shaking their bones, trembling in the rock under their feet. Castiel looked up, seeing the cloud getting thicker and thicker, and not far from them now, the brilliant blue-white jagged bolts of lightning striking the rock of the higher peaks.

"We should move under the cover of the storm." He looked at Astraeus and Ruane, the giant and woman standing behind him. "They are close behind us, we could lose them if they take shelter."

"And if they do not?" Astraeus looked back down the long valley. "If they were just men, Castiel, I might agree with you. But demons will not fear this storm."

"Castiel is right. We cannot sit here and wait for them to come upon us." Ruane looked up at the mountains they had to cross. "Better to die up there, free, than be puppets for the demons, or playthings."

The giant sighed. "What are we waiting for then?"

He stood, bending over slightly against the push of the fierce winds bulleting down the slopes, looking over his shoulder down at them. "Stay behind me, you might get some shelter that way."

Castiel and Ruane mounted their horses, and followed at his heels. Each of the giant's strides was over twenty feet, and they pushed the horses into a trot to keep up. The wind was lessened behind him, slightly, but the sheeting rain, bouncing off the rock and thin grass, and blown over them as spindrift, couldn't be avoided. The horses trotted with their heads down, tails tucked tightly against their rumps, trained to endure whatever came their way, but plainly thinking little of it.

As they came to the peak, they dismounted. From here there was no choice but to walk, finding the narrow goat trails and leading the horses over them. Castiel looked back, seeing amorphous shapes moving down the valley behind them, indistinct but unmistakable through the silver curtains of rain and the cloud that was slowly thickening around them.

The cloud would help, he thought, hide them as their tracks were washed away by the fury of the storm. Once they reached the high range, that separated this series of valleys from those of the villages, they would be crossing rock and leaving no trail at all.

He wasn't sure how they were being tracked. Kokabiel had not come in a dream to either himself or Ruane, or even to the giant. They had doubled back after crossing the first of the high ridges from the western side, moving only over rock and through the frigid mountain streams for a day before turning and heading north again. Still, the unit of Scythians had followed them. He was subliminally aware of them, their position and their speed, at all times, and he'd started to worry in earnest when he'd realised that the horsemen were gaining on them despite their hurry, despite their precautions.

Lightning crashed into the snow and ice nearby, filling the air with the bitter scent of ozone, and blinding them all for several moments. He stood on the edge of the glacier, eyes filled with white light from the flash, and a spark of energy from the bolt trickled through him, coruscating beyond the nervous system of his vessel, touching something else inside of him. He felt that touch as a revelation. It came to him that the demons could probably see him.

He'd thought he was mortal, flesh and blood, but perhaps somewhere inside this vessel he was still an angel, and that light of Heaven still shone enough for demonkind to be able to discern his movements. The longer he stood there, thinking of it, the more certain he became that it was him they were seeing, tracking.

He turned to Ruane and Astraeus sharply. "Astraeus, you must ensure that Ruane reaches the valley of her people."

Ruane frowned at him. "And you, Castiel, you must be with me."

"No. I think," he looked down the broken slope they'd just traversed and back to her, "I think they can see me, can track me because of what I am."

"But you said you were mortal now." She stared at him in confusion. "You have no powers, you have no contact with your own kind."

"I know, I feel mortal but I did not fall, Ruane, nor was I thrown down." He shook his head. "I must still be as I was, even if only in some small part." He looked at the giant. "I will cross the glacier here, moving slightly south of east to find a crossing. I will lead them away from you."

The giant nodded slowly. "And if it is not you, Castiel, that they track and follow?"

"Then I will have made the mistake of a lifetime, Astraeus, and it will be up to you to ensure Ruane's safe return to her father."

The giant looked away. "That I must do in any case, angel."

Ruane bit her lip indecisively. "Castiel, if they follow you, you will be alone, helpless."

The angel smiled wryly. "How little you think of me, Ruane, after all our travels. Even as I am, I am not helpless, and if they can see me, I will think of something to make use of that."

"Go. Over this peak and down the valley, then turn to the east." He gestured ahead, handing Ruane the rope of his pack horse. "I will see you soon."

He turned away from them and led his grey onto the glacier.

Astraeus shrugged and stood, turning to the north and finding the trail over the rock. Behind him, Ruane looked at Castiel as he drew further away, man and grey horse disappearing into the thick cloud in moments. She turned and followed the giant.

* * *

Castiel walked fast over the ice and snow, watching his footing, mindful of the animal he was leading, the icy rain turning to tiny, hard pellets of snow as he passed the middle of the frozen field of ice. He could feel the incline rising as he walked on toward the serrated peaks.

The wind, funnelled down the glacier by the surrounding peaks, howled incessantly at him, driving the fine snow against him, the dry granules building up on his cloak, in his hair and over his shoulders. He stopped twice to shake the snow from his body, the second time pulling the heavy cloth bedroll from his saddle and throwing it over the horse, to provide some protection for the animal against the frigid cold. The finely built Arabian horses had begun to grow in some length of coat, but it would never be as thick and layered in oil as the coats of the steppes horses.

He reached the grey rock and found a narrow path leading up and around the ridge, slipping slightly as he hurried along it. By nightfall this path would be glazed in ice, and he would have to wait until the temperature rose before he could keep going. He thought the demons were still forcing their way up the valley, but couldn't be sure. Beyond the ridge, he could descend down to the alpine forest again, gain shelter in the trees and possibly a time for rest. He thought he would know by then if it was him that the demons were tracking.

By morning, possibly even now, the tracks of Ruane and the giant and the horses would have been washed clean by the rain or filled with snow, either way they should be safe enough, away from him.

The thought that he was not entirely mortal had brought a frisson of excitement to him, relieving his fears of facing the mage and Lucifer as purely a man, powerless and futile against them. Of all of them, only he knew the power of the angel that had been cast down. To face him, to destroy him, it would take more than three mortal men, no matter what the prophecy had said.

The thought made him wonder about the courage of the mortal men he knew. How did they face the foes they had, armed only with their physical strength, their determination and hope? Was there something different in them, something that gave them this thing that men called courage? Many men had it, he knew. But there were possibly as many who didn't. Was it a strength of self? A belief that no matter what the cost, good must win over evil? Did God look down at such men and help them in their time of need? He shook his head. He didn't know.

* * *

Sam felt himself drifting away, his thoughts spiralling inward and down, losing clarity and importance, as his blood was drained, mouthful by mouthful. The pain was distant, unimportant. He understood, now, why his brother had sometimes wanted to take this path, to leave him and the world for the quiet darkness of death. It was a relief to lay aside his struggles and his fear, his thoughts and feelings, to rest and to sleep.

He heard the clatter of boots over stone, the hiss of metal from leather, and the strum and whicker of bow strings and arrows, without registering the import of the sounds. The warmth of the mouth against his neck lifted, and the cold air chilled his skin where it had been, but he felt too tired to protest even that. He turned his head away from the noise, squeezing his eyes shut as he heard screams and shouting and the clash of a blade striking stone.

"You're not getting away that easily, Sam." The voice of the Watcher was close by his ear and he twisted from it, feeling long fingers grip his shoulder and pull him back.

"You – I need a dressing for his neck." Samyaza stared down at the shrivelled, sepulchral body of the vampyre at his feet, the head lying several feet away. "Get rid of this, burn it."

The flowing blood was roughly cleaned from his neck and a thick, soft bandage wrapped around the wound. Remotely, a part of him wondered if the vampyre had already taken too much, taken him too close to dying for even the Watcher to be able to bring him back.

"Get wood, hide. Make a litter. We need to get him out of here." The commands were snapped out, and Sam opened his eyes slightly, seeing the Watcher standing above him, covered in filth and blood, his hand resting on the hilt of the long sword at his hip. Behind him, several Scythians were likewise grimy and blood stained, pulling the vampyre's body away and trimming the branches from slender birch saplings. He closed his eyes again.

The Scythians completed the crude stretcher, a thick hide roughly sewn around the straight lengths of birch, and rolled Sam onto it, lifting it and carrying it out of the stone ruins, past a burning pyre and into the forest.

Samyaza walked beside the litter, watching the face of the man who lay there thoughtfully. Cesare had intimated that this man was a powerful warrior, skilled and experienced at hunting the things that roamed the night. It didn't seem likely that he would have been unable to defend himself, at least, against the creature that had taken him.

Then, lack of hope did strange things to men, and even to those who were not just men.

He thought of the man's face as he'd told him of the death of his friends. Death was a part of life, always present, always expected. He'd thought to convince the man that he would not be rescued, that there was no way out for him. But it seemed he'd done more than that.

The woman, perhaps. He had no personal experience of the emotion that men called love. But he'd heard that it was powerful, powerful enough to begin wars, powerful enough to send men to their deaths in despair. He stared at the pale, still form on the stretcher and considered what he could do to ameliorate the situation he'd created. Presumably this man would not just believe him because he said so. He would think on the matter. In the meantime, he needed to think of a way to make up for the time they'd lost and a way to travel while Sam could not ride.

* * *

Alis stared up at the topmost shelf in the storeroom, eyes narrowed. The heart of the wyvern was hard to get, and she knew her mother would be angry with her if she took it. But they would need it, at least some of it. And Valenis would have to admit that her daughter was taking healing seriously if she did discover the loss. She looked around and saw the ladder, leaning up against the other wall, crossing and picking it up, leaning it up against the rows of shelves. She climbed to the top, and stretched out, her fingertips just reaching the soft leather bag. The ladder was as vertical as possible, she would just have to reach harder.

Higher, just a little higher. She lifted her foot up, fingers closing on the shelf below as the ladder wobbled a little, all her weight now well above the point of stability. She stretched out her arm a little further, feeling the fold of leather between the ends of her fingers and slowly drawing it forward, feeling the bag moving finally.

"Hey."

Alis started, her knowledge that she shouldn't have been here flaring into panic and adding to the movement, the ladder wobbling harder, lifting onto one foot. Her fingers yanked the bag forward as she turned, and her feet lost their grip on the rungs. She slid straight down, reaching behind her to catch anything as she felt the ladder teeter forward.

Dean looked up and pushed back against the ladder, straightening it and counterbalancing the lean, his hands automatically catching her and pushing her back against the rungs as she fell toward him.

"Thought you were being more careful?" He looked into her face, level with his, feeling her breath on his lips.

"I thought you were going to stop saving me?" she countered breathlessly, staring into his eyes.

For a second, they were still, so close that he could see the flecks darker green against the jade of her irises, that she could see the beat of his pulse against the thin skin over the artery in his neck, then she turned her head away and down, her foot looking for the rung below, her fingers tightening on the small leather bag. Dean stepped back, letting her go, his hand clenching on the ladder's upright, keeping it against the shelves with unnecessary force.

"Going to tell me what you were risking your life for up there?" he asked, wanting to break the silence, to be past that moment and everything in it.

She looked over her shoulder. "Just, uh, herbs, medicine we might need for the trip."

He watched her leave the room, leaning against the almost upright ladder. "Right."

* * *

The wind hadn't dropped, but the sky was clearing, shreds of blue visible as the dark storm clouds were torn apart and blown to the east. Ruane shivered under the damp fur cloak, looking at the ground in front of her, the rock running with small streams and rivulets of water as the recent snow above them softened and melted.

Astraeus waited for her at the peak, hunched down among the rocks to avoid showing himself against the skyline. She looked at the vast face, hair and beard dripping with water, cheeks red and chapped from the wind and smiled wanly at him.

"Castiel was right. They could see him, somehow."

The giant looked back down the mountain and nodded. "Yes, the demons followed him across the glacier."

She stopped as she reached him, glancing beyond the peak to the long twisting valley she could see below them. "Where will you go, now?"

Astraeus turned his head, following her gaze. "This is your home?"

"Yes." She pointed to the tiny cluster of buildings just visible in one crease of the valley. "That village is very close to mine. I can be home with another days' ride, once we reach the bottom."

"I will go down with you, then." He looked at the range on the other side of the valley, his brows drawing together slightly. "Then I will go east, and south."

"The main army is that way, Astraeus. They will kill you."

"I think not." He looked down at her. "In any case, I must go that way. My brother left us a long time ago, and he came this way. I have been following him for many years now, I will find him, to the east."

"Are there many of you?" Ruane stepped back, watching him rise to his feet, following him as they began to descend the steeper eastern slope.

"Once. We were twelve families, living in the beautiful lands to the west, where the sea was warm and wine-dark and shallow. But we had to leave, after the land was flooded and men became more populous. We walked south and lived there. My family, most of it, is still there. The men there are … deferential, shall we say? … to our size."

Ruane smiled dryly. "You mean they think you are gods?"

He glanced down at her, his mouth curving into a smile. "That's hardly our fault, is it?"

"Why did your brother leave?"

Astraeus sighed deeply. "Why do young men leave their homes and families anywhere? He wanted adventure, wanted to test himself against the world, I think."

They reached the alpine forest by mid-afternoon, and Ruane was able to ride again, finding the narrow game trails down through the thick pine, birch and mountain maple. Astraeus grumbled about the narrowness of the trails, walking mostly sideways to avoid breaking the branches along the path.

Below the forest, the trails began to widen, almost imperceptibly at first, then more obviously and they saw the prints of human and bovine and equine, intermingled with the tracks of mountain goat and bison, deer and bear. They made their camp in a small clearing, hobbling the horses and sitting in the darkness, talking of their lives and of the country that surrounded them.

"So, you do not want adventure?" Ruane drew her cloak closely around her, the dampness had almost gone now, the sunshine through the afternoon and her own body temperature drying it.

"Not really. Seems as if it's more discomfort and danger than excitement."

She laughed softly. "Yes, you are right. I thought that adventure and travelling would be a fine thing, until I did it. Now, I want to get home, to see my father, my friends."

The stab of pain in her chest stopped her from speaking for a long moment. She hadn't spoken of Sam since Castiel had left them. She would have gladly given up seeing her family ever again if she could have been with him, known for sure that he was safe. That feeling, that knowledge felt disloyal to her home, and her secondary desire, to be home and safe, if only for a short while, felt disloyal to Sam.

She'd prayed to the God he'd told her about, the one who was supposed to have created the world and everything in it, every morning and every night. She didn't know if that entity ever heard her prayers. She prayed to the gods and goddesses that she'd grown up with as well, hoping that somewhere, someone with more power than she would be watching over him, giving him strength.

* * *

Sam looked into the dark pool at the edge of the forest road disinterestedly. Samyaza stood beside him, and he could hear the Watcher's voice, murmuring softly, the words rising and falling in a sing-song rhythm.

He was stronger, the colour had come back to his skin, he could sit up now and could ride for some of the day. Samyaza had ordered the Scythians to hunt and forage for fresh food and watched him eat.

He looked at the dark water, barely recognising the reflection that looked back at him. His hair, his features, they were the same but behind that, it wasn't him, didn't feel like him. The man looking back at him from the smooth, black surface was empty.

"Look into the water, Sam." Samyaza's voice broke into his thoughts. "Look past the reflections and into your heart to see what you most want to know."

He leaned forward, his eyes focussing suddenly, seeing shapes moving in the blackness below the surface. They swirled around, rising slowly, sharpening as they got closer to the top. He didn't notice when his reflection disappeared completely, as a flash from the depths resolved into a round pin, engraved with a design that he knew, and the face above it became clear.

Ruane was riding a fine-boned chestnut horse with a bright white star, down a long forest trail. Behind her, two other horses followed. Above her, tall trees arched, their branches bare and dark, an elaborate tangle against the pale morning sky. She was very thin, bruises on her cheek, and a long red cut running from her temple into her hair, but her expression was calm, her jaw lifted slightly in the way that he knew, when she had to complete a task that she thought might be beyond her.

His heart jumped in his chest as he stared at her, memorising the details of her face, the lock of loose dark hair that had escaped from the bindings that held the rest back, and hung against her cheek. She seemed to be riding alone, he thought distractedly, looking at the road ahead of her, not turning to talk to anyone, or listen to anyone. Where was Cas? Why was she alone?

He watched as the trees thinned out around the road, and she rode into the weak, watery sunshine, recognising the standing stone at the junction, the long sweep of the hill to the village at its peak. Black Valley.

The images softened, dissolving and he reached out automatically, trying to touch them, to call them back.

"No! Wait …" he looked up at the Watcher, his brow creasing. "Make it come back."

Samyaza shook his head. "Not yet. You've seen what you needed to, I presume. She's alive and safe, and near her homeland."

"You lied to me." The words were said without inflexion, without colour or heat.

"Yes." Samyaza looked down at him. "Well, I stretched the truth somewhat. My mistake, I had no idea you would lose all desire to live."

Sam looked back at the smooth dark water, seeing his reflection in it again. This time, he was there in it, recognisable and familiar.

"Would you really prefer death to the fate that has been written for you, Sam?"

He looked up at the Watcher. "I would prefer death to a life without hope."

Samyaza shook his head. "Hope is an illusion, Sam, like love. Pretty illusions to keep men going, when they know in their hearts that darkness will always win and love will always die."

Sam stood up slowly, mouth lifting in a one-sided smile. "Samyaza, that only tells me that you know nothing of either."

* * *

Ruane waved at the guards on the palisade of Black Valley's walls as she went past. She'd considered stopping, spending the night there but had, as she'd ridden up toward the village, decided against it. She was so close to home now, she couldn't wait another evening, couldn't stop and converse and sleep in a bed not her own. She heard hoofbeats coming up behind her a short time later, and turned in the saddle, seeing Yuri cantering along the road.

"Ruane, you are not stopping here?" He panted as he drew up alongside her. She smiled at the young hunter.

"I've been gone for so long, Yuri, I can't stop now, so close to home."

He nodded. "Kirill wanted me to ask after Sam. He has an idea for a war machine, to throw things at the enemy."

She looked away for a moment, biting the edge of her lip. "Sam was captured by the enemy, the demon army. He has been taken away." She gestured to the road ahead of her. "It is another reason I have to get home quickly, to let his brother know of it."

Yuri looked at her. "I will tell Kirill. Do you need more warriors? To go after him?"

She shook her head. "I do not think so, Yuri. The army is right through the mountains now, the demons are burning and killing everywhere. All of our warriors will be needed at home, to defend the people, to keep safe our land." She twisted in the saddle. "Tell Kirill to work on his ideas, and tell Mikhail that he must build his stockpiles of salt and iron. They are coming, they will find a way into the valley and attack us."

"The southern pass is closed, Ruane. Dean and Alis closed it a month ago, when a raiding party tried to come through."

"Good. But it won't be enough. Not to stop them. Castiel … Castiel said they are hunting for a man, and they will kill everyone to ensure that he dies. Tell Mikhail and Kirill to prepare the defences, I don't think they'll give us more than a couple of weeks now."

He nodded, repeating her words soundlessly to himself. "Then ride safe, and take care."

"Yuri." She turned again to look at him. "Tell Mikhail, if the village falls, to bring the survivors to Deep Ice." She looked back at the road. "Tell all the villages that if they are overrun, to come to us."

"I will."

He wheeled his horse and galloped back down the road, disappearing around the bend of the ridge as the forest began to close around her again.

She wasn't sure why she'd told Yuri that. Every village had its defences now, and none were really any stronger than any other. It had been just a feeling, pushing out of her. She resettled her cloak over her shoulders and pushed the stray lock of hair back behind her ear, clicking to the horses to keep up as she put her legs against her mount's sides and they quickened into a trot.

* * *

Castiel looked up at the steep ridge, the sheer rock and tangled growth along the edges impassable for his horse. The pass had been closed, and looking at the broken rock that filled it, he thought he recognised the hand of Dean Winchester in that destruction.

The demons were close behind him, no more than an hour at most, he thought. He could leave the horse here, climb over the ridge on foot. Something told him not to. The demons might not like being without their horses, but he was sure they would keep tracking him, following him into the valley even if they had to do so on foot. He looked down the road to the south. In a few more miles the forest thinned out slightly. He could head east again, make his way northwards along the lower slopes, find a way through further up.

He shook his head tiredly, looking at the horse beside him. Tough and resilient as the hardy desert animal was, it was thin and as exhausted as he was. He had to find another solution, running ahead of hell's wolves was killing them both.

"Cas, you have been very difficult to keep track of."

The voice was familiar, and he spun around, staring at the angel in front of him in astonishment.

"Yes, yes, I know, very irregular and all that, but I was told to help you and that's what I'm here to do." Balthazar glanced at the grey horse eating the grass beside the road. "I suppose you need to keep that thing?"

"What are you doing here? I found … I found your bones, on the field of battle …," _along with my own_, Castiel thought but couldn't say out loud.

"Ah yes. We're looking into that." Balthazar walked to him, smiling a little. "I do realise that it's a shock, old man, but we should get going if we're going to be out of here before those savages with the bows and the pointy little arrows get here."

Castiel nodded. "You can get us out of here?"

"If you could just bring that animal a little closer, yes." Balthazar looked at the horse, wrinkling his nose.

Castiel drew the reins toward him and the horse moved obediently up beside him. Balthazar reached forward, his expression of distaste deepening as he laid his hands on the angel's shoulder and the horse's forehead.

The grey snorted suddenly as they materialised again, this time on the northern side of the pass. Castiel looked at the wall that was now a barrier against his followers, instead of an obstacle for himself.

"They will see me through the rock and follow me."

"Not now." Balthazar looked at him. "You got a little of your power back, when the lightning struck near you, didn't you? Even I've had problems seeing you clearly since then."

"Balthazar, who sent you?"

"Can't tell you that, Cas. You do have friends in high places." The angel looked around, and then back to Castiel, his gaze running over the angel's clothing and armour. "I can't say I'm all that impressed by your going native, though."

"Can you – can you help us destroy this mage and prevent Lucifer from rising?" Castiel looked at his friend intently. It would change everything, to have one ally with his power.

"Afraid not. I'm not privy to the higher councils, you understand, but the way everything's been mucked around with, there's a lot of action upstairs to try and straighten it all out."

"So this is an anomaly?" Castiel tried to make sense of how that was possible. "No one in Heaven knew of it?"

"Took everyone by surprise." He looked around again. "You're on your own here, Cas, I don't think there'll be any further help. But I was given a message for you. The purposes of evil can be used against them as a force for good."

"That's it?" Castiel stared at him.

"'Fraid so. I have to go." The whisper of great wings echoed softly against the rock wall.

Castiel stood in the road, staring at empty space. If Heaven knew what was happening, why wasn't anyone doing anything about it? Or was Balthazar trying to tell him that no one knew what was happening, or how to stop it from happening, or even if it could be stopped from happening.

He walked to the edge of the road, sitting down in the long grass to let his horse graze. The Moirai had told him that they'd been forced to change the lines of Destiny by the sacrifice made by the mage, Cesare. In doing so, they'd seen ahead, not all the way, but a part of the way at least. Seen that Lucifer would rise with no one to stop him. They had found him in transit and changed his course, pulling them back to this time, this place. To stop the fallen angel from rising.

Was it possible that Heaven had not seen that, if not before the event then at least as it had occurred?

He didn't know enough about how destiny was truly supposed to work, he thought. At first, he'd thought it was simple. When a line was either completed, or irretrievably broken, it moved to the next line. But now, he wasn't so sure about that. He had the feeling that somewhere, somehow, this line had been planned and woven as well. Perhaps it wasn't the events themselves that were important to the lines, but those involved in them?


	31. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

* * *

The hall was full of people, from the eldest to the youngest, and for the first time since they'd arrived here, Dean realised, it was quiet. The people sat at the tables and on the floor, along the steps up the staircase, leaned against the walls and stood in the doorways, their faces turned to the back of the room, watching their leaders.

He stood behind Alis, listening to the quiet argument between the dark-haired leader and his daughter.

"They must know what is happening, father." Ruane's voice was low but no longer soft. It wasn't the only change in her, Dean thought, looking at the fierceness in her eyes.

"A leader cannot tell his people everything, Ruane. They will panic, they will not know what to do. I can tell them some things but for their sake, I must keep the worst to myself, to this council."

Alis looked at Vasiliĭ. "Ruane is right, Vasiliĭ. This time is not like other times, it is not the same as raiders or a bad winter or omens of famine."

"Alis, this is exactly like all the other times. We are facing an enemy greater than ourselves and the people need to keep their hope, not face despair."

"Father, listen to me. These people trust you, us, with their lives. We must return that trust and tell them what it is that is coming for us, no matter that they may lose their idea of safety now, they will regain it knowing that it is the same for all, and it is only by standing together, as a single people, that we can fight and survive." Ruane said, the passion in her voice stopping her father's argument momentarily.

"This army is looking for a man, Vasiliĭ," Castiel stood slowly and walked to them from the end of the table, "and your daughter is right. They will not stop, they will not move on until every man, woman and child, every animal and even the trees and the soil of the ground itself, is dead."

Vasiliĭ turned to the angel. "Then we are without hope."

"No. No, we have each other, Father. We have the means to defend ourselves, to drive them from our land. But it has to be all of us. Together, everyone knowing what is at stake."

Vasiliĭ looked at Valenis. She shook her head slightly, her lips pursed together. He looked back at his daughter, his shoulders slumping slightly as he realised that it might be the only way to keep them together, to keep everyone safe. "Then we will tell them what they are facing."

He turned to the hall, clearing his throat uncomfortably. Ruane walked to stand beside, her chin lifted and her shoulders back.

Dean looked at them, listening to the warnings and plans they spoke of, the defence of the village and the people, the difficulties they would face. He knew how it felt to want to protect the people from the full truth of what was coming, to carry that burden alone. He thought that this time, Ruane was right. These people weren't helpless or stupid. They could fight. He sat down at the long table, feeling torn in half.

"I am glad you waited." Castiel said quietly beside him. He glanced at the angel.

"There wasn't much choice."

"The village is protected, Dean. You've done all that you can here."

He looked around the hall, looked at the faces of the people sitting and standing there, people he knew, had worked shoulder to shoulder with, people he'd willingly fought for, firelight and lamp light shining on old, wrinkled, scarred faces, on smooth, round cheeks and wide eyes. "Have I?"

"You are not abandoning them to their fate." Castiel watched his profile, seeing his uncertainty in the tension in his jaw, the stillness of his body.

"That's funny, because that's exactly what it feels like I'm doing."

"We have a different path to follow."

"Don't give me that destiny crap, Cas. I thought we'd managed to get away from that, coming here, but like a bad penny, it just keeps on coming back, showing up, fucking everything over." The bitterness in his voice made Castiel hesitate.

"It's not just Destiny at work here, Dean."

"So help me god, Cas, if you tell me one more time that there's a greater power at work, I'm gonna punch you in the face." He got up and walked away, trying to damp down the anger that filled him, easing past the people in the doorway to the hall that led to his room.

The prophecy, the sorcerer in the north, Lucifer trapped in the cage and the fates changing the lines of destiny so that he could be released earlier than he should have been, as if he were being paroled for good behaviour … his brother, trapped in the centre of it, the whole mess was unbelievable. Cas had told him about Balthazar's appearance, the angel's confession that Heaven had no idea what was going on and were running around trying to find out. That he believed.

"Dean."

He turned reluctantly, not wanting to talk to anyone right now, but particularly not the slender red-haired woman standing there, watching him. Every time he looked at her, he felt emotions that he didn't understand, contradictory and chaotic, a fierce longing, for what, he didn't know, and a growing sense of panic that whatever it was, he would never get it.

"Not now, Alis." He leaned against the wall and shook his head. "Just, not now."

He heard her soft exhale, the light tapping of her boot soles as she walked away, back to the hall, and felt his chest tighten. He had to find Sam, even if it meant that they both died, he had to find his brother, and stop the fallen angel from rising into this world and decimating it. He didn't know how he was going to live with himself if that decision meant that these people all died, killed by the armies that were almost certainly gathering along the flanks and valleys of the mountains, looking for a way in.

He walked down to the room, going to the small chest Marat had made for him. The sweet scent of cedar rose as he opened it. He pushed aside the clothing, and pulled out his gun, popping the mag free and looking at the line of bullets it held, slamming it back in and checking the safety. He put the gun on the reinforced cuirass he would be wearing and went back to the chest, lifting out his watch and looking at it thoughtfully. He wasn't sure why he felt the strong impulse to take it along, he couldn't think of any reason he'd need to know the precise time, wasn't even sure it was still keeping precise time. But he put it next to the gun anyway.

* * *

Castiel looked up as Alis came back through the doorway, her face closed and tight. He understood the conflict in his friend, knew that the months here among these people, who were in many respects very similar to him, had changed Dean in ways that could probably not now be undone. It didn't help that he didn't have enough answers to provide reassurance that Dean was doing the right thing. The answers wouldn't have mattered anyway, Castiel thought. Dean was doing the only thing he could. There had never really been a choice for him, not in their old life, not here and now.

Valenis had called Sam's image in the water and told him that the Watcher was moving slowly north. Castiel didn't think they would be able to catch up, not until they reached the northern sea, at least. The celestial event spoken of in the prophecy, the solar flare and eclipse would be on the winter solstice. That was a fixed event, and one he'd been able to confirm. The ritual could not be completed before then, and if they were lucky, and any delays were minimal, they would reach the island of fire and ice well before then.

They would leave in the morning, taking a north-western route over the side of the volcano to get around Armârôs' forces. They would go light, carrying as little food as was practical, and as fast as they could north west to the northern lands.

He rubbed his temples lightly with his fingertips, recognising the folly of what they were attempting. Only two thousand miles of mountains, forests, rivers and lakes to cross, with winter bearing down on them, and the last two hundred miles or so would have to be on foot, because the terrain was unsuitable for the horses, with little or no feed, and probably a snow pack, wherever it could settle, or frozen tundra with high velocity, ice-laden winds.

Travelling hard, they might make forty or fifty miles a day. He was sure that Samyaza was moving at least that fast. It would be mid-November before they reached the lands that would become Finland in the future. At least mid-November.

* * *

The land had flattened out, and silver flashes gleamed like fish scales in the flat grey light, water lying still across the plains, between the spindly copses of half-submerged trees, and amidst the reeds that dominated the low-lying banks of the river.

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the mists rise and swirl away from the Scythians. They rode through the marsh, the occasional bird's cry and the steady splashing of the horse's hooves in the standing water punctuated now and then by a deep squelch as a hoof or foot went too deeply into the mud. There was little wind in the broad shallow basin, not enough to lift the scents of decaying plant matter and rancid mud.

"How old is your master?" He turned to the Watcher riding beside him, his voice low.

"I don't know." Samyaza answered absently, his attention mostly on the soldiers riding around them, on the treacherous ground they were crossing.

"I heard he was pretty old, over five hundred years."

The Watcher turned his head, looking at him consideringly. "That's not all that old, you know. I'm several times older than that."

"You were an angel. Your master is just a man."

"Not just, Sam. Cesare is not _just_ anything."

The silence stretched out for moments and Sam wondered if he should try another line of questions, when Samyaza began speaking.

"I don't know that much about him. I can feel him, at the back of my mind, listening, talking to me sometimes, sleeping sometimes but aware. He was born in these lands, further to the west, in a village that has no name. He came into his power late, when he was already grown to manhood. He spent years … centuries … searching for a way to get more power, to become powerful enough."

"Powerful enough for what?" Sam said softly, wondering if this was the Watcher talking to him, or the mage trying to gain his trust through confidences.

"To control Time." Samyaza looked at him and blinked rapidly several times. "This place is not safe, we will have to get out of here."

Sam nodded, following as the soldiers turned west. Had Samyaza been in control for those few minutes of conversation? It was hard to tell. The information had seemed freely given. And when he'd changed, it had seemed as if he had no memory of what he'd just been talking about. Maybe there was a way to reach the man through the control of the mage.

* * *

Dean looked down at Ruane's upturned face. "You need to stay here, with your father, your people. They're going to need you now."

"I want to come with you, Dean. I can't sit here and wait for news of Sam, can't bear not knowing if he is alive or dead."

"Ruane, I promise you that I will find him. You have to trust me on that." He turned away. "But you can't come with us, Sam would kill me if I let you come, and something happened to you. He needs you to be safe, needs you to be here, alive, when we get back."

She shook her head, the long dark hair falling around her face. "There is nowhere safe, Dean. You know that."

He rubbed his hand over his face, unable to argue that. "Safer than travelling two thousand miles through lands we don't know, and winter coming down, Ruane. Here you can defend yourself, there are people who can defend you."

She looked up at him. "Alis is going with you."

His eyes narrowed slightly as he caught a faint undertone to the words. "Alis has trained her whole life to fight, Ruane."

"That's not why -" She stopped suddenly and sat down by the hearth, head bowed. "How do I sit here, doing nothing?"

"You won't be doing nothing." He walked to her, kneeling beside her. "You said it yourself, to your father. The armies are coming, Ruane. The valley needs every leader, every warrior, every hunter to defend it."

The words bit through him even as he spoke them, the knowledge that he was leaving them when they needed him the most still raw and bleeding. There was no choice. But it didn't change that pain. Didn't lessen the feeling of letting them down.

She looked at him. "Bring him back, Dean."

He stood up. "I will."

* * *

Alis looked over the horses again. She'd been up for several hours, preparing the supplies, feeding and watering the horses, checking and double-checking their weapons, their food, the things that would mean the difference between life and death on the journey. They were taking the Scythian horses. Although they weren't as fast as the Arabians, they would survive better in the conditions they were going to be facing, and would fare better when it was time to turn them loose and continue on foot. Vasiliĭ had already laid out a breeding program for the Arabs and their own horses to improve their stock, ready for the spring. She liked the leader's optimism.

"Alis."

She turned around, seeing her mother standing by the pen rails.

"Are you sure about this?" Valenis' voice was soft, almost hesitant.

"Yes." Alis shrugged. It was long past too late to change her mind now. She had made her decision. She would stand by it.

Valenis' face softened as she looked at her daughter. "I am glad to see you becoming the person you were born to be."

Alis felt her breath catch in her throat as old pain, unresolved, rose in her chest. "You don't think I would have been that person as a wife, as a mother?"

Valenis reached out and touched her daughter's cheek gently. "Those things will still come to you, but you will know who you are when you get them, Alis. I know it was hard, when Petyr disappeared –"

"It wasn't hard. It was stupid. I was a child, I was a fool." She turned away, her fingers running again over the rope that held the saddlebags. "I learned from that mistake, I won't make it again."

"Alis, that wasn't a mistake, it was just … experience. Just life." Valenis had had this conversation with Alis many times now. She couldn't tell if it had been pride that had been so wounded, or if her daughter had really loved the man, but like herself at the same age, Alis had gone to the other extreme and shut herself off, refusing to let anyone so close again. And Valenis couldn't get through, couldn't find the words to explain to the young woman that everything worth anything was a risk, and no matter what happened, taking the risk was more important than hiding from it.

"It makes no difference, mother." She looked over her shoulder. "You told me that a healer must have no more heart than a shrike, must make the hard decisions to save the body over the limb. As a warrior that applies also. I am suited to this, for the one thing I am rid of is a heart."

"Alis, that's not what I meant at all."

"Can we not talk about this again?" Alis looked down. "Give me your blessings for the success of this hunt, because we have to succeed. Warn me of the way we must go to keep us safe to the northern sea. Give me something I can use."

Valenis sighed. "Samyaza has gone around the marshes. You can gain time by going through them, so long as you remember the dangers. There is a path, midway between the river and the forest, it is firm from one side to the other, but there are Whisperers in the mists, and you must make the circle of protection every night you sleep in them."

Alis nodded, listening to Valenis' description of the path, the landmarks she would see, the signs that would keep them on it.

Valenis' eyes darkened slightly as memories filled her mind's eye, the lands she'd crossed, and what she'd experienced on the long journey from her homeland to the south. "You are in most danger when you are crossing north of the marshes, Alis. From Sabirs, there are ice storms, the _poorga_ from the north east is very strong that will cause the temperatures to fall fast and deep. The cold from them can kill. You must find shelter if you see the darkness line the eastern horizon, underground if possible or at least under as much cover as you can find or build."

She shook off the past, focussing on her daughter's face again. "Castiel says that the fort, the old one that Katchenka knew of, is by a lake. I looked for it tonight and I can still see the clouds that surround it. Be careful there, for the mage trapped many things in the circles he made around the place."

Alis watched her mother's eyes lose their focus again, her attention turned inward. She felt herself shiver as Valenis' voice whispered to her. "Remember that gratitude sometimes is a greater lever than fear. That everything you give out will be returned to you, greater than the original gift."

"Mother?"

Her pupils contracted, returning to outward awareness, and Valenis leaned forward, kissing Alis on the forehead. "You will know when you have healed, you will feel it."

Alis looked past her as Dean and Castiel came through the barn door. "Watch us in the water, I will watch for you as well."

Valenis nodded and turned to Castiel, lifting her hand and laying it lightly against his forehead in a gesture curiously reminiscent of the angel's own. "Your powers are returning, Castiel."

He looked at her in surprise. "I cannot feel that."

"You will." She smiled at him. "I think, for a short time, you were happy without them."

He looked away, knowing that was, at least partly, true.

Dean watched the angel's discomfort. He'd wondered if Cas had enjoyed being mortal. As a man, he'd seemed more … decisive, maybe. Able to make decisions, anyway.

Valenis looked up at him and he wanted to look away, aware that the healer sometimes saw things that no one else did.

"Take care of my daughter, Dean."

He hadn't expected that, and he nodded awkwardly, glancing at Alis who was fiddling with the horse's harness, her back to them.

Valenis walked out of the barn and both Dean and Castiel exhaled with relief. She was a formidable woman, and neither felt completely easy in her presence, uncomfortably conscious that she saw too much, and had too little regard for propriety or personal feelings.

The horses stood along the rails of the pens, saddled and ready, their bridles loose around their necks.

"Everything ready?" Dean walked to his dark brown mare, slipping the bridle over her ears, settling it comfortably against her nose and cheeks. He untied her from the rail and walked to the door, waiting there.

"Yes." Alis followed him down the wide aisle of the barn, leading a dun mare and looking back over her shoulder. Castiel finishing bridling and turned the bay gelding to follow them.

They mounted in the square, double checking girths and stirrup leathers, then turned for the gate. None of the guards on the wall had a smile for them tonight, their slowly lifted hands more funereal than well-wishing. Dean grinned up at them, automatically showing a confidence he wasn't feeling.

"We'll be back before the spring. Our stories'll be better than yours," he called and raised answering smiles from Lyre and Avram at least.

"Better be back before next midsummer's eve, Dean!" Lyre called out as they rode through the gate.

* * *

Going around the marsh had slowed them down considerably, Sam thought. And they'd lost two of the Scythians in the night while they'd been trying to get free of it. He wasn't sure what had taken them; Samyaza had lit fires to completely encircle the camp when it had been obvious that they weren't going to make it all the way out before dark. He and the Watcher had sat in the centre of the camp, the soldier's forming a wall around them, the fires a second barrier beyond. Still something had managed to get through. He thought it might have been a crocotta. The noise of the fires and the conversations of the soldiers had drowned out most of the night's sounds through the evening, but later, sometime between midnight and dawn he'd thought he'd heard a voice, his brother's voice calling distantly to him. If it had been a crocotta, Samyaza obviously hadn't known anything about them.

The mage was relying on the Watcher a lot, he thought, and the Watcher didn't have any experience of the monsters and dangers of these northern lands. The mage wasn't keeping as close an eye on them as he thought he would. The last part of the prophecy talked of the challenger, a man who would defeat Lucifer with a sword of blood. Was that what the armies were focussing on now? Finding and killing this man so there would be no challenge? He guessed that was probably the case. It didn't quite explain how much time Cesare was devoting to his armies though. Seek and destroy was an easy enough command, even for the most addled of demon-possessed brains. Was there something else? He wondered if he could find a way to use Cesare's divided attention to his own advantage.

The endless speculations didn't help him all that much, other than give his mind something to occupy itself with. Samyaza had spelled another pool for him, he'd watched Ruane sitting in her room, the bruising faded a little, listening to the healer talking about something. He'd realised, watching them, seeing the tension in both of their faces, that her safety was only relative. The armies were closing in against the mountains, and they would get in sometime, and attack the villages, looking for this challenger.

He looked up as Samyaza dropped cross-legged beside him, the Watcher's face thin and drawn now, that odd reddish cast that sometimes tinted the silver irises of his eyes not present at the moment.

"Where do we go from here?" Sam asked quietly. The Watcher reached for the iron pot on the fire, pouring out hot water into two cups. He replaced the pot on the fire and pulled the small pouch that held a mix of sweet herbs and tea from the bag at his belt, adding several pinches to each cup before he looked up.

"There is a ship, waiting on the coast for us. It will take another couple of weeks for us to reach it."

"Which coast?" Sam looked down at the cups, watching the leaves slowly sink as the water turned a golden brown.

"You have many questions."

Sam's head snapped up at the change in the voice of the Watcher. He saw the eyes were sharp on him now, a hint of red in the irises, as if firelight was reflected in them.

"Just curious."

Samyaza laughed softly. "Oh, I don't think you're 'just' anything, Samuel Winchester. I have looked behind and I have looked ahead and it is always you, as fixed as the stars in their positions in the sky, always you, and your brother and the other one, who I can no longer see clearly."

Sam felt a chill run down his spine. "If it's always us, then you know that it always ends the same way."

Samyaza's mouth stretched out into a smile. "Not always. Sometimes you win. Sometimes I win. Sometimes the Lord of Hell wins. The players remain the same but the game changes from time to time."

"This is going to be one of the times we win. And you will be destroyed. And Lucifer as well."

"This time I have Fate under my control, Samuel."

Sam stared at him, seeing the red fade from the silver eyes, Samyaza looking back down at the cups and handing him one, his expression smooth and calm, his movements stiff and wooden, as if he'd forgotten how to use his limbs.

"Drink. It will warm you."

The mage's intonation and speech patterns had gone from his voice, but it wasn't exactly the voice of the Watcher either. Sam had the distinct impression he was looking at a puppet, a life-sized puppet, the mind empty and clean.

* * *

It was nightfall again by the time they reached the ford of Black River. Dean leaned back between the roots of the tree he was resting against, looking at the small fire. He'd managed to shut away his fear for his brother for most of the day, but now that they'd stopped moving, he could feel it gnawing away at the edge of the wall it was locked behind.

"Cas, why doesn't Lucifer want me instead of Sam?" He looked at the angel, leaning back against a long log on the other side of the fire.

"Valenis told you about the bloodlines?"

"Yeah, a bit. She said the Campbells were descended from Azazel, the Winchesters from a different Watcher."

Castiel nodded. "Araquiel. Azazel's line was compatible with Lucifer. His vessel had to come from that line."

"But we're both from that line, from both lines."

The angel sighed. "You received more of the angel heritage from Araquiel, for some reason. It's not the same as human genetics, Dean. Sam received more of Azazel's … coding. It made him more suitable for Lucifer. And Araquiel's coding went through your father's line, it is compatible with Michael."

Dean shook his head. "Sam's more like Dad than I ever was."

"That's not true, actually." Castiel flicked a glance at him.

"Trust me, Cas. It's true." Dean closed his eyes.

Alis sat cross-legged on the grass, looking across the fire from one to the other. "What does it mean, to be a vessel?"

Dean snorted. Castiel looked at him for a moment, then back to the young woman. "A vessel is a human who consents to an angel inhabiting them, so that the angel can perform tasks on this earthly plane."

"That's one way of putting it."

Alis glanced at Dean. "You mean the angel possesses the human? Like the demons do?"

"No." Castiel said firmly.

"Yeah." Dean opened an eye and looked at her. "That's what it is, no matter how nicely you word it."

The angel frowned at him. "Angels must have the consent of the human."

Dean shrugged.

"But Penemue, was he in a vessel also?"

"No. That was his body. He chose to fall, at God's request, and his body was created when he did."

"The other Watchers, Samyaza and the ones who control the armies, the demons, they are in their own bodies as well?"

"Yes."

"How is it that this sorcerer can control them from so far away, Castiel? My mother said that the spells required for that kind of magic would take enormous energy, more than a single person could provide or sustain."

"The sorcerer is using some kind of device, Alis. To communicate with the Watchers, to control their actions. I don't know how it works." He hesitated, thinking about Valenis' comment on the energy draw. He didn't know much about the practices of human magic. It revolved around symbolic language, the language that humans required to speak to their own subconscious, the link between their minds and the energy of the universe. The powers of angels was simpler.

"I thought Valenis wasn't a witch?" Dean looked at her from half-closed eyes.

"Well, she's not Baba Yaga, she doesn't do evil things or eat children or try to destroy the world," Alis turned back to him, "but she has power, she knows how to draw energy from a circle, and how to use it to make healing faster. She knows how to make protection and use spells. Is that what you mean by a witch?"

Dean frowned slightly and Castiel flicked a sideways glance at the man, cutting in.

"This is a different world from our own, Alis. Magic is more easily accessible now, than it is in the future. Stronger. And people have changed so much that they cannot access their own power, and have turned to demons for it."

Alis' brows shot up. "Is that why you have so many demons in your time?"

Castiel rubbed his fingers over his forehead tiredly. "It's entirely likely."


	32. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

* * *

"What's to stop the bad guys from finding this and coming in this way?" Dean looked up at the narrow slit between the cliffs, brows drawn together as the setting sun painted a thin line of gold down the length of his face.

"Nothing." Alis knelt beside his horse, tying off the rawhide strip that bound the thick, loosely woven cloth around the hoof. She straightened up and pulled another cloth from her belt, moving to the near hind and lifting it, wrapping the cloth around the hoof up to the pastern and setting the hoof down, tying the cloth firmly with another strip of hide to the leg. "That's why we're taking these precautions."

They were three miles from Black Valley, against the western mountain ridge in a narrow gorge. The dun mare and bay gelding, feet covered in the cloth to disguise the shape and muffle the sound, stood quietly. After dark they would go out through the thin break between the rock walls and down to the forest, hopefully avoiding any patrols that might be there, and leaving no sign of where they'd come from.

Dean looked down at the ground around the horses. Instead of the obvious hoofprints, the ground around their feet held soft impressions, shapeless and indistinct. He rubbed the brown mare's forehead absently as Alis finished the last hoof, the off hind.

"Most of Armârôs' army is on the eastern side, searching along the ridges for a way in or over that isn't too treacherous." Castiel looked at him. "If we're seen a few miles away, it won't matter so much, but we don't want to advertise this route."

He nodded impatiently. He knew that they had to be careful, had to make sure they left no trace of where they'd come from. He dragged in a deep lungful of air, to loosen the tightness of his chest, relax the muscles of his back. The sense of time running away from him had accelerated in the last couple of days and he couldn't stop the tension from building up with every halt and every delay. The distances seemed laughable when he thought about the car, but the car was in the future, the gasoline that could have run it buried deeply in the ground, thick and viscous and unrefined, and by foot, even by horse, every mile took too much time.

Alis handed him two cloths and strips of rawhide, and gave a couple to Castiel, sitting down and wrapping her own feet in the soft material and binding it around her ankles.

Castiel wound the cloths over his boots and tied it on, looking up as he did it. So far, the weather was holding, the days and nights spectacularly clear, the air crisp but not yet very cold. He thought they would have another hundred and fifty miles to go before they got out of the mountain range. Three days steady travelling. They would follow the flank of Mt Elbrus tomorrow, and he hoped once that was behind him, the demon armies would no longer be a threat. At least to them.

They ate and rested as they waited for the sun to set, for dusk to pass and night to settle down over them, then led the horses into the narrow pass that the villagers called the Throat. The starlight was bright enough to show the edges of the rocks, but little else. The defile twisted slightly along its length and Alis stopped, several yards from the opening on the other side, moving silently on her own to check that they weren't about to come out into a camp of soldiers. The hillside was empty, the forest below only a few hundred yards away, down the steep grassy slope.

Leading the horses quietly through the trees, Dean turned his thoughts to the prophecy again. The Corival, Cas had called the other man the armies were looking for. A counterbalance to the rising of Lucifer. He knew Cas thought it was him, although how the angel had come to the conclusion he wasn't sure. He hadn't done much to Lucifer when he'd had the chance in Carthage. One of five things the Colt couldn't kill, the angel had told his brother. How freaking convenient.

The prophecy talked about the Corival destroying the mage, and turning into a dragon, wielding a sword. How was he supposed to take that? How could a mortal man turn into a dragon, find a sword that was forged in the fires of Heaven? Didn't anyone ever have a vision that was straightforward and could be described in plain English? The prophecy had been misleading about describing Sam as well, he supposed that same vagueness could apply here.

Something about Sam and the prophecy was bothering him, he couldn't remember exactly what it was, but it scratched at his mind. The wording, he thought, trying to remember exactly how the prophecy had described it. He glanced back at Castiel, and shook off the thought as he realised he'd have to wait until they could safely talk again.

The forest was thick and steep, their feet and the horse's hooves slipped over the needles that covered the track so that they had to go slowly. He could see the pale lightening of the sky against the peaks of the mountains by the time they reached the gentler incline of the temperate forest, the pine and spruce and birch thinning out, oak and maple taking their place. Alis stopped and untied the lacing from the cloth around her feet, Dean and Castiel following suit as quickly as possible. They unwrapped the cloths covering their mounts hooves and mounted, relieved to be able to move normally, to be able to get a grip on the ground again.

The long walk down the mountain had given the horses a much-needed respite from the speed that they'd been travelling and they trotted along the flatter trails comfortably, heart rates low and steady, breathing easily.

Ahead, as the light grew stronger and the first rays started to spill over the serrated range to the east, they could see the towering twin peaks of the volcano, snow glistening at the summits, the darker rock of hardened lava from the last explosion like a shadow down the side. The western side was heavily forested and they would stay within the forest until they reached the northern face. From there, they could descend, following the coastline of the Black Sea north and west until they reached the much smaller Sea of Azov, and had to travel around it to get to the Ukraine.

"Cas, what was the exact wording in the prophecy about Sam?" Dean closed his fingers lightly on the reins, his mare slowing and Castiel's horse moving up beside him.

"_And I saw a mortal man, born of an angel and demon, who was his doorway." _Castiel looked at him. "Why?"

"Why does it say 'doorway'?" Dean looked down at the road ahead of them. "Why that distinction?"

"I don't know. Perhaps the prophet didn't know about vessels?"

"A doorway implies something that you go through, not something you stay in."

The angel raised an eyebrow at the man beside him. "That's a good point, but I'm not sure the prophecy itself is that pedantic about it."

"In our time, Lucifer told Sam that he had always been his vessel." He chewed on the edge of his lip, trying to remember all the crap the fallen angel had spouted at them over the times they'd seen him face to face, and what Sam had said about his dreams of the devil.

"Yes?"

"I don't know. It's bugging me." Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know why, but it is."

Castiel considered the wording again. "I don't know that I would give it too much attention, Dean. The phrase 'born of an angel and demon' was also misleading."

"Yeah, but it's accurate as well." He looked up at the side of the mountain, not really wanting to ask the next question, needing to know the answer. "Why do you think I'm the one who's supposed to take Lucifer on?"

Castiel was silent, and Dean turned his head to look back at the angel.

"The Moirai said that we three had always been tied to Lucifer, to his rising, to his fall. And I am not a mortal man." He looked at Dean. "Right through your life, Dean, you've been the defender, the protector. I don't think it's all that you are, but I think that's what you think of yourself."

He watched his friend's face close up, that shuttered look that he used to keep others away, when he felt vulnerable.

"You got any ideas on how I'm supposed to find a sword of blood? Or turn into a dragon?" His mouth twisted sardonically. "Or fire thunderbolts from my hands?"

"No." Castiel looked down at the reins in his hands. "I think that whatever it is you need, we'll find it somewhere along the way."

He heard the derisive snort and sighed.

"Good plan. I feel better already."

"Sarcasm doesn't help."

"No. But it makes me feel less like a friggin' puppet." Dean shook his head. "Michael isn't going to beam down and insist that I'm supposed to be the vessel for this fight, is he?"

"No. This mage, Cesare, is controlling the Fates in some way – through the living sacrifice, I think – and Michael wasn't seen in the prophecy."

"You know, that's another thing. How can anyone, witch or not, control the Fates?"

"Almost everything can be controlled or directed by something, Dean. Everything has a counterpoint, everything has an opposite or has some fracture that leverage can be used against." The angel looked at him. "It's just a matter of finding out what it is."

* * *

Sam sat on his horse looking down at the countryside spread out in front of them, eyes wide. The rolling land was richly forested and dotted with lakes, large and small.

"Where are we?" He looked at the Watcher.

"Jumalten." Samyaza glanced at him. "Land of the gods. The old gods, of course."

"How far are we from the coast?" Sam asked.

"Twenty miles to the small sea to the west. But we will travel another nine hundred miles to get to the north coast. It will be safer than these waters." Samyaza wheeled his horse and waited for Sam to turn in front of him.

Sam thought hard. Nine hundred miles to the coast – the north coast. He dragged up his memories of northern Europe. If they were heading for Iceland, then the north coast was probably going to be Norway, he thought. Nine hundred miles south east of Norway … could be Russia, maybe. Or Finland.

What the hell was he doing with this useless information? _Keeping yourself sane_, the response was quiet, but certain. If he could find a way to get free, it would sure help to know which direction he was going run in.

He glanced around at the soldiers surrounding him, only ten now after the vampyre and the crocottas in the marsh. He wondered if he should be grateful to the monsters for whittling down the numbers.

"Even if you could escape, Samuel, you wouldn't get far. Kokabiel has marked you and any demon can find you now, no matter where you run, or hide." Samyaza's voice was not his own, and Sam felt a chill ripple through him at the words of the sorcerer.

"Can't blame me for thinking about it," he said lightly, turning to look at the Watcher, seeing the red glint in his eyes.

"Of course not. I'd be disappointed if you weren't." The Watcher winked at him and he turned away.

"What do you get out of all this, anyway?"

"The usual things. Power, fame, glory." Samyaza shrugged.

Sam felt his mouth lift, the smile humourless and involuntary. "You don't know Lucifer too well."

"The Lord of the Underworld has promised me the power to change the world." Samyaza's head snapped around to look at him.

"Yeah, well Lucifer is also known as the Prince of Lies." Sam looked at him coolly. "And he's not big on keeping promises. He hates humanity. He'll wipe the earth clean when he gets here, you know."

Samyaza was silent, looking at him, the reddish tint more pronounced against the silver eyes now. "How could you know so much about him?"

"Didn't the Moirai tell you where we came from?"

He saw that he'd surprised the sorcerer a second time and smiled a little more widely. "_There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy._"

"Shut your mouth." The Watcher's eyes narrowed to slits and the words were almost spat out.

Sam shrugged and turned away. Cesare was rattled, he knew that. It wasn't so surprising that the sorcerer hadn't really known what he was dealing with, either the angel he was trying to resurrect or the elemental forces he was trying to use to achieve it. He wondered what else the sorcerer had meddled with that he hadn't known the full story on. The living sacrifice, maybe. The Corival?

"We'll ride till dusk today."

The Watcher's voice was his own again. Sam glanced at him, seeing that his eyes were clear and aware. Cesare had gone, perhaps to go and question his servants.

* * *

Alis crouched by the small puddle of water, held in a depression in the black rock. She had cleared her mind and focussed her thoughts on her mother, on the village, and the images swam up from the bottom, displacing the reflection of her face. Valenis looked back at her, her face drawn with worry. Behind her, the window show masses of dark cloud piling up against the mountains to the east, and she knew that was what her mother was worried about, the _buran_ was coming, early this year, like the other storms, and maybe more severely than in other years.

She touched the surface of the water and the images were broken by the ripples, when the water stilled again it was only her face she saw.

She turned and looked east, the mountains blocking most of the sky in that direction. They were barely thirty miles from Temerind, she thought, the storm wouldn't hit them for another few hours. But before it did, they would need good shelter, for the horses as well, protected from the wind and cold, with plenty of wood for keeping warm and cooking. The easterly storm wasn't like the _poorga_, the ice wind that swept from the far north east, but it brought severe blizzards to the mountains every year, could drop the temperatures very low, and would bring masses of snow with it.

Now, with the knowledge of it, she could see the animals of the forest reacting to its approach. She watched a flock of birds wheel in the pale sky and head south and west, across the sea to more sheltered lands further west.

"Castiel, Dean, there's a storm coming. We need to find shelter, a cave preferably, big enough to bring the horses into as well." She straightened and took her mount's reins from the angel, swinging into the saddle and moving off as they mounted quickly and followed.

"How do you know?" Dean looked behind them. The pale sky looked as it had all morning, featureless and flat, neither blue nor grey, almost white.

"It's at Deep Ice already. I saw it in the water." She gestured around them. "And here the animals are looking for shelter, the birds are leaving. We'll have a few hours to find a good place, but that's all. We do not want to get caught in this."

"There were some large caves in the northern foothills, I believe." Castiel hurried his horse up beside her.

"Yes. I know the ones you mean. They are not too far from here." She pushed her mare into a canter, the urgency transferring from her to the horse, and in the upper airs over the mountains, the wind freshened.

* * *

Dean looked around the broad valley. Bisected by a wide, shallow stream, it faced west, gently sloping down to the dark grey water of the inland sea, nearly two miles away. The long, high ridge to the south held several wide, dark openings in the rock face.

The wind was gusting in the trees that covered the slopes, the noise like the rush of ocean waves on a beach. The temperature had already dropped a lot, he thought, as if the heat had been sucked out of the air. Castiel stood beside him, holding the horses as Alis looked carefully through the largest of the caves. Several deadfalls on the other side of the valley were dry and weathered, there would be enough wood to keep fires going for a while, if what she said about the duration of the storm was accurate. He wasn't so sure how the horses would feel about having a fire near them.

He looked up as she hurried up to them.

"Can you get wood? Both of you? I'll take the horses in, there are two good caves in there, deep under the ridge, they will protect us."

He nodded and handed her the reins of his mare. Castiel followed him across the short, springy grass, still green despite the frosts. Alis turned and led the three horses into the caves, disappearing from sight almost immediately.

Loaded with armfuls of wood, Dean saw why as he crossed the pasture and entered the cave. The first cave was large and shallow, a scoop out of the rock wall. At the rear and to one side, a wide tunnel led back into the hill, curving around and opening up into two more caves far back, behind the first. The horses were standing to one side of the cavern, unsaddled and hobbled. Alis had moved their packs and bedrolls to the second cave, which was deeper underground, almost egg-shaped with a high domed roof. She'd set out a large circle of stones and he dumped his armful of wood next to it.

He met her in the tunnel on the way back out, her arms filled with dry hay, cut from the streamside where a small marsh still held a good stand of reeds. The next time he and Castiel brought back a load of wood, she was staggering back with two skin bucketfuls of water for the horses.

Castiel lit the fire as Dean brought in the last load of wood, dumping the thicker branches along the walls of the cave.

"Is that enough? It's starting to snow out there."

Alis glanced at the stack of wood along the wall and nodded. "Should be."

The flames of the fire flickered wildly as the wind gusted through the caves, and she stood, walking quickly down the tunnel. Dean followed, slowing as he saw that the afternoon had turned to night, the cloud mass over them and the wind roaring hollowly down the valley and whipping up the water of the sea at its end.

"So this is normal? This kind of storm?" He glanced at her.

"Not this early, usually they come after Yule. But yes, the _buran_ is a winter wind here, very strong and bringing a lot of snow. Especially around here, near this sea." Alis pulled her cloak more tightly around herself, looking out into the wild night. "We will know in the morning how big this storm is."

She turned around and walked back up the tunnel, the air still now that the variable gusts had passed over them, the main front blowing strongly from a single direction. Dean shivered as he felt the temperature dropping further, glad that the caves were holding the warmth of the fire.

They ate and Alis built up the fire, the wood burning well but the temperature in the cave not really rising as the cold air mass slowed down above them. The horses browsed through the hay and slept, their thick coats keeping them comfortable, especially in this deep shelter where there was no wind.

Castiel rolled himself into the fur-lined bedroll and was asleep in minutes. Dean looked at him curiously. Angels didn't sleep. He wasn't sure if Cas had just acquired the habit, or if he was still more mortal than angel.

He was tired but not ready for sleep. He pulled out his whetstone and honed his knife slowly, the firelight bright enough to read by, bright enough to see the details of edge as it became keener. Alis sat cross-legged on her bedroll, working some softened fat into the leather of her boots. He watched her long, wiry fingers bend and flex the leather, the firelight lending a golden tint to her skin.

She looked up, dipping her finger into the softened fat, picking up a small pat of it and extending it to him. "Try this, on the blade, it will keep the heat of out the metal while you sharpen. Give you a sharper edge."

He wiped the pat off the end of her finger onto his and smeared it along the edge of his knife, running the stone lightly over it again. She was the blacksmith's daughter, he thought dryly, she should know what she's talking about. The coarse honing stone absorbed the fat, and the tiny nicks and notches disappeared from the edge of the blade.

"What is living in your time like?"

Dean looked over at her, unable to see her face, as she bent over the leather.

"Convenient." He looked back to the stone, thinking about their world, their time. "Crowded. Fast." _Lonely. Painful. Confusing_, he thought.

"Do you miss it?"

He set the knife aside and put the stone away. "Some things I do. Others, not so much."

"What do you miss?"

He smiled. "My car. Uh, being able to communicate over long distances easily. Fast food. Highways. Guns."

She set her boot down and picked up the other one. "You don't miss your home? The people?"

"We didn't have a home. And yeah, I miss some people, but most of the people we knew back there, they died." He leaned back against his saddle and closed his eyes.

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Yeah."

The silence grew in the cave. He could see the flicker of the firelight through his closed lids, hear the faint sounds of her hands working the leather, the soft crackle as a piece of wood burned and fell to ashes, the other pieces settling over it. Distantly he heard the wind, still howling down the valley.

"It's not like here," he said quietly. "It's not so simple as having enough to eat, a place to sleep. People have changed. There aren't many hunters, and no one believes in monsters anymore. Except the people who run into them by accident, I guess."

He heard her breathing change slightly, and knew she was listening.

"The things that you take for granted here … like honour and keeping promises, and having each other's backs … that's not so common in my world. There are a lot more people, millions and millions more people, but it seems like they're all on their own."

He stopped, not knowing really what he trying to express to her. The life she'd lived, that he'd lived for the last few months, was so different, so much more than he'd felt in their world … and yet, he guessed, for a lot of people in his time, it hadn't been so different. A bit more confusing, a bit more sedentary, maybe … but he thought most people had their friends, their family to fall back on. Coming here was different for him, and for Sam, because they'd lost those people, because of the fight they were in.

That fight was here now, and he dragged his thoughts away from the losses he knew were coming.

"Sounds like a lonely place," Alis said.

"Yeah. For us, it was. Maybe not for most people. I don't know." He thought of the motels, the long ribbons of concrete and asphalt and gravel he'd travelled, the way he'd drowned his pain and the grey wall of despair that had always been within arm's reach.

"Do you like this time better?"

He opened his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at her. She hadn't moved, wasn't looking at him, her attention on the boot in her hands, but he could feel some slight difference in her question, in her voice.

"I like the simplicity of it. I like knowing what I have to do and being able to get on and do it." He watched her. "I'm not crazy about the way things are going right now."

She smiled. "No."

"I like the people of this world, Alis, I like …" He struggled to find the words to express what he'd felt, what he still felt, the satisfaction of doing real things, the contentment of being with people who thought the way he did, who felt the way he did about the things that were important to him, of having work for his body and for his mind that was challenging and tested him. He liked who he was here. "I feel like maybe I belong here."

She looked at him, her eyes shadowed. "Without you, and Sam and Castiel, we would all be dead now. Slaughtered in the first attack in the valley." She looked down. "I think you were sent here, to help us. To save us."

He looked at the fire, uncomfortable. "I didn't do that much, Alis."

"Whoever sent you, Dean, whatever it is that makes you the way you are, I would certainly be dead if you hadn't been here."

"That wasn't … that was automatic, I didn't think about it." He tried to brush off the significance of that instinctive act.

She smiled. "I know. It's who you are."

Putting down the boot, she resealed the clay pot that held the fat and tucked it into her saddlebag, drawing the warm fur of her bedroll over her.

"You don't have heroes, in your world, your time?"

He looked at her sharply. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"

She shrugged, closing her eyes. "You protect those in danger, those who cannot protect themselves, you put yourself into harm's way without thought, you are driven to stop evil. Here, in this world, you are a hero, Dean."

He looked down at her, the scowl automatic, as denial took over. "No, I'm not. I'm not anything special, Alis."

He heard the faint laughter from her bedroll and pulled his own over himself, rolling over away from her, away from the bright firelight. He wasn't a hero. He just did what he could. And usually messed it up. Or let those depending on him down. A hero didn't mess things up. A hero knew what to do. He wasn't a hero. He closed his eyes. Maybe he'd saved her life. And maybe the people of the valley would have a better chance now. But it hadn't been heroic. He hadn't done anything that anyone else wouldn't have done, in the same place.


	33. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

* * *

The log fell apart with a burst of sparks and a soft crackle into the embers. Dean opened his eyes, rolling over and pushing the fur back as he reached for another log and put it onto the fire. He couldn't hear the wind anymore, couldn't hear anything other than the small noises in the cave, the steady breathing of Castiel and Alis, the snuffle and occasional stamp of the horses in the cavern beyond. The cave was cold, despite the warmth of the fire, and he pulled the fur from his bedroll, drawing it around his shoulders as he stood up.

He added several more pieces of wood to the freshening flames, and moved the iron pot over them, checking that it held enough water. Pulling on his boots, he walked through the cavern and into the tunnel, following its curve to the outside. The cold increased as he got closer to the entrance, his breath coming out first in clouds of white, then in the star-whispers that Alis had mentioned, when the temperatures had dropped below minus forty degrees, the moisture in his breath freezing as soon it hit the air, falling to the ground at his feet as tiny droplets of ice. His lungs burned with the cold and he pulled the fur high around his neck and face, knowing he'd lose any exposed flesh and maybe fingers and toes if he stayed out here too long.

The valley was white, still and silent, the branches of the trees lining both sides, bowed down with ice. He frowned at the view down the valley, knowing something was missing but unable to think what it was for a few moments. It slowly registered that the sea had vanished, the snow stretching out as far as he could see west in an unbroken sheet of white. He shivered slightly, and turned back into the tunnel, feeling the numbness of his feet, even in the boots.

Alis was awake when he got back, and the fire was spreading more warmth through the cave. He crouched beside it, looking at her.

"It's freezing out there, and a lot of snow fell in the night." He held his hands out to the flames. "And the sea seems to have frozen over."

She nodded. "It does that. It will help us. If the big sea has started to freeze already, then the Temerind might be solid enough to cross."

"What's the Temerind?"

"The Sea of Azov." Castiel sat up in his bedroll, rubbing his eyes. "It lies to the north of the Black Sea. It's smaller, more freshwater in it. It used to freeze over even in our time, and it's colder now, in this time."

Alis nodded. "Near the opening, it's only a few miles across, and shallow sandbanks for most of it. It will save us a long walk around it."

"Can we move through this cold? All that snow?" Dean watched her make the tea that Valenis had provided for them, thinking of how quickly his feet had become numb.

"Yes. We will have to be careful, to keep under the forest where the air is not so cold as the open ground, and we must keep moving, but we can keep travelling."

She made the thick porridge of grain and nuts and dried fruit that was a staple in their supplies, and they ate quickly, pulling on extra shirts under the armour, and thick fur cloaks over. Dean looked at the rabbit skin mittens he'd made for the angel when they'd first arrived, still tucked into his bag. Guin had made them thicker pairs for the journey from mink, the beautifully soft fur on the inside, the outside oiled heavily to keep moisture out, and he pulled them on. They made using his hands clumsy, but it was worth it for the warmth and the protection.

They packed up the camp and loaded the horses, and floundered out through the deep snow drifts that covered the ground in front of the caves, feeling the air bite through the layers of clothes, the layers of thick woollen cloth wrapped around their heads and faces. They were lucky there was no wind, Dean thought uneasily, looking at the white sky. It would have snap frozen any skin that was bare.

Under the closely spaced trees of the forest, there were still mounds and drifts but it was easier to make their way through them. The horses walked quietly beside them, their breath snorting out like glass waterfalls as the moisture froze and fell, the faint tinkles and chimes as they hit the ground an odd aural accompanyment. Alis led them higher toward the ridge, and the ground was clearer, the snow blown by the force of the wind through the night.

"How far to this sea?" Dean looked at Castiel, tapping at the ice that stiffened the cloth over his face.

"About thirty miles from here, I think. We should be able to cross in the morning."

"How much time do we save?"

"About two hundred and fifty miles," Castiel said. "Five or six days riding."

"Good."

They mounted as they came off the last ridge. Temperate forest stretched out in front of them, black and grey against the crisp, virgin white snow, the branches of the trees interwoven in a vast pattern over the trunks, holding the snow like a roof in parts, glistening with the glaze of ice in the flat light.

* * *

_Sam walked restlessly around the room, looking at the piles of books stacked up on the floor, overflowing the bookcases, crowding the surface of every table. The fire was lit in the small fireplace, and the air smelled of dust, mouldy paper and that ancient, indefinable scent of old paper._

"_Quit pacing, you're gonna wear a hole in the rug." Bobby looked up at him irritably from under the brim of the baseball cap._

"_What's taking him so long?" Sam turned around and threw himself onto the daybed that sat under the window, hearing the spatter of raindrops against the glass behind him._

"_Mebbe he got a flat." Bobby shrugged, looking back down at the book he was searching through. "Mebbe security was a bit tighter than he expected. It don't matter, boy. He'll get it. And he'll be back."_

_He heard the huff from the other side of the room and rolled his eyes. Sam looked at the stack of books on the end table beside him distractedly._

"_What're these?" He pulled one from the pile, holding the stack steady with one hand._

_Bobby kept reading. Sam opened the book, flicking through the pages, skimming over the text. He stopped at one chapter, brow creasing as he read down the page._

"_Bobby, what the hell are these?"_

_Bobby looked up and focussed on the book Sam was holding. Tredecim Hereses. "Black magic. Got 'em from a deceased estate a few months ago."_

_He got up and walked around the desk, taking the book from Sam's hands and looking at it briefly before shutting it and replacing it on the top of the pile. "Not easy reading, son. Give 'em a miss."_

"_Why do you have them?"_

"_Knowledge is power, Sam. You have to know what you're hunting before you can kill it." Bobby sat down again, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the pile. "We haven't seen magic like this practised for, oh, mebbe a thousand years. Doesn't mean that some asshole isn't going to try and resurrect the past, though."_

"_Have you read them?" Sam looked back at the books. "What's a living sacrifice?"_

_The older man leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Yeah, I've read 'em. Wish I hadn't." He reached for the bottle of whiskey that sat next to the lamp and poured himself a glass._

"_Living sacrifice is an old spell, pre-biblical old. Mebbe even pre-settlement old. I'm not sure about that." He looked at Sam. "Three children were needed, special children. Their lifeforce was drawn out of them, very slowly, to feed the entities the witch wanted control over. Thankfully, it's near impossible to perform."_

"_Why?"_

"_Needs a lot of stuff that no one can get." Bobby said shortly. "Like I said, Sam, it ain't easy reading."_

"_What kind of entities was the witch trying to control?"_

"_Different kinds, old gods, spirits, that sort of thing. The spell in that book claims to be able to control the Fates."_

"_The Fates? As in the three Greek sisters, Fates?" Sam's eyes widened slightly._

"_Yeah, them."_

"_Do you think the witch succeeded?"_

_Bobby gave him a sour look. "No. Find something else to do, Sam. I'm tryin' to work here. Dean'll be back soon."_

Sam woke abruptly, his eyes snapping open, the grey mists surrounding the camp disorienting against the dream's details of Bobby's study. More than just a dream, he thought, it was a memory. He'd forgotten about that pile of books until now, forgotten the one heavy tome of black magic.

The two Scythians guards were watching him and he ignored them, the chains that kept him tethered to the saddle, even in sleep, clinking softly as he reached for his fur jacket and pulled it around his shoulders.

Castiel had told him the prophecy. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the part about the control over the Fates. Three children in a chalice of fire? It was the same spell, it had to be. What was special about the three children? How could they be living in a chalice of fire? More importantly, how could it be reversed?

He looked at the guards and gestured to the fire. "This needs more wood. Get the water boiling."

One of them started to get to his feet, the hand of the other flashing out and yanking him back down again, the eyes blinking and filling with flat black from corner to corner, mouth stretching out in a shark-like grin.

Sam looked at them more closely, noticing that the skin of both guards was rough and scaly, the shadows around the eye sockets deep and spreading. The Scythians were dying, or were possibly already dead, the demons inside them were keeping them animated and giving them the semblance of life. He looked away, wondering how long they'd last before the rotting flesh started falling off them. In this cold, maybe a while longer. But once they got to the sea, and the salty moisture hit them …

* * *

"Vasiliĭ, Stone Well has been attacked."

The dark-haired leader looked up at Yuri, the messenger from Black Valley. "How many?"

"Fifty men, without their horses. They have surrounded the wall, but have not been able to get in, as yet."

Vasiliĭ nodded abruptly, getting up and following him down to the square. Ruane and Valenis exchanged a glance and rose as well, hurrying after them.

In the square, people were putting on armour, gathering weapons, saddling horses and leading them out. Vasiliĭ walked to the blacksmith's workshop, taking the long hauberk from Torgva wordlessly.

"Vasiliĭ."

He turned around and looked at the healer, who strode up to them.

"Fifty men? On foot? This is not an attack." Valenis looked from the leader to her husband.

"Not? Then what is it?" Vasiliĭ buckled the heavy sword belt around himself, settling the scabbard to lie flat.

"A diversion, I think."

Torgva looked at his wife, brows drawing down. "Diverting us from what, Valenis?"

"From a real attack, somewhere else in the valley." She looked from one to the other. "To draw away our warriors and leave our villages defenceless."

Vasiliĭ looked down at her. "What makes you so certain, Valenis?"

"It was only a matter of time before they found another way into the valley, Vasiliĭ. It is what I would do if I had a way to bring in an army slowly." She shrugged.

Torgva looked at the leader. "I think she is right."

Vasiliĭ looked out at the square, at the men and women getting ready for war. Beside him, Yuri stood waiting. He nodded, and turned to the messenger.

"Go back to Black Valley. Tell Kirill to get his machines up here." He frowned. "Take fifteen warriors with you, they should go to Stone Well. At each village, you will stop and tell them to send fifty warriors to us here, as quickly as they can."

Ruane listened to her father, her heart thudding against her ribs. Kirill had made three of the machines that Sam had discussed with him. Two of them threw long iron spears at the targets, the third could throw larger things, although she remembered Sam saying that it wasn't as efficient as a different type of machine. He hadn't had time to give Kirill the design for that one before they'd left.

Vasiliĭ turned back to Valenis. "There are two ways for horses to enter the valley, now that the passes are blocked."

She nodded. "They may have found the Throat. Or they could have come through the marshes to the east. That way is more treacherous. They would have lost men and horses. I think they have come from the north."

"Black River will be the first target then, yes?"

"I think so."

* * *

Elbek stood on the rampart of the wall surrounding the village, every sense prickling with unease. The night sky was dark, covered with cloud, and still with the smell of snow on the wind though the _buran_ had passed over them days before. Along the wall the torches shivered and blew this way and that, the moving flames creating shadow creatures along the walls and over the frozen mud of the square.

He looked around as Aleksei walked toward him. "Anything?"

Aleksei shook his head. "There's something out there. But they're hiding well."

Elbek nodded, eyes narrowed as he looked out into the darkness. He'd been excited to come to the village and help Geny with the armaments, with the training. He'd felt ready to face anything. Now, he wished that Dean was here, the older man's experience and darkly suspicious nature might have given him an idea as to what was going on.

The flat whap of a bowstring sent him automatically to the crushed gravel floor of the rampart, and he looked up, seeing Aleksei's shocked face as he fell slowly from the wall, the white feather fletching of the arrow in his throat bright against the dark armour he wore. Beneath the shelter of the parapet of the wall, Elbek's face twisted seeing his friend hit the hard ground below, then hardened.

"Sergei! Ana! Dmitry!" He screamed the names of the night guards and rolled to his knees, pulling his bow from his back, bracing the end under his knee and stringing it, dipping the arrowheads in the clay pot of oil that was kept below the torches and lighting the first. The arrow flew to the south and west, guided by memory, and he saw it hit above the last tree on the peak there. A torch flared in the darkness of the peak as the signal watcher ran to the tall pile of wood stacked on the summit, arcing upward and falling onto the oil-soaked wood. As soon as the signal fire caught, Elbek turned back to the wall, firing arrow after arrow flaming into the woods that lay on the other side of the small stream. They hit the ground and the trunks of the trees, spreading pools of light around them, and the guards saw the gleaming reflections of eyes and the glint of armour, heard the sudden snorts of the horses concealed in the woods.

All dropped flat behind the parapet of the wall as volleys of arrowfire were returned, the arrows arcing over the walls and dropping into the square, hitting the stone and timber buildings within the walls, setting the thick straw and twig thatch on fire in places.

In moments, the square was thick with people, warriors struggling into armour, gathering weapons, people throwing water and snow over the flaming arrows, putting out the fires, men and women running from the houses built around the square up to the stone keep, carrying children, food, weapons and clothing.

"How did they get into the valley?" Sergei lay on his side, his back against the wall. Elbek shrugged.

"The Throat, most likely." It didn't matter, he thought. They were in, and there were a lot of them, and if this was the northern army that Dean had spoken of, there would be a lot more of them coming slowly through the narrow defile.

* * *

The forest thinned out as they reached the edge of the Temerind. Dean looked at the humped white expanse in front of them, the shoreline rising on the other side. In the open, the cold felt like fire in his throat and chest, and he pulled the wrappings and thick fur collar of the cloak he wore higher around his mouth and cheeks.

They walked down the slight incline to the edge of the sea, the horses' legs leaving long ploughed furrows through the soft powder, the flakes rising and settling again as they passed through it.

"Don't really feel like falling through." Dean looked suspiciously at the ice, which the wind had blown clear of snow. "How sure are you that this'll hold us?"

"I am sure." Alis pointed north and east, across the expanse of white ice. Dean's gaze followed the direction and he saw a dozen dark shapes on the ice, bigger than the horses, widely branched antlers making identification easy.

"Elk." She slid off her horse, watching the small family group making its way across. "They're heavier than we are, and the water there is deeper. Are you reassured?"

He looked down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Yeah."

They led the horses out onto the ice, walking slowly, the surface rough where the water had frozen in wavelets and ripples and humps, snow still sitting in the hollows. Dean saw six smaller animals come out of the forest behind them, standing on the bank and watching the two groups as they crossed the ice. The lead animal's tail was held straight up.

"Are those wolves?" He frowned against the glare of the light reflecting from the ice and snow.

Alis turned and looked, nodding. "They'll follow the elk, not us. A lot of animals will cross the sea while it's frozen. They can see all around them, it's harder for the predators to take them when it's all open ground."

It took a little over an hour to walk to the western shore of the narrow strait, and they climbed up over the snow-covered sandy dunes, onto firmer ground with relief. The peninsula was joined to the mainland by a narrow isthmus on the north western side, fifty miles away by the straightest route. Another forty or fifty miles beyond that and they would reach the Dneiper, Castiel thought. It might be frozen over, in which case crossing it would be easy. If it was not, they would have to stay on the eastern shore until it narrowed enough to cross, probably somewhere around where Kiev would be, in their time. It had been a big river in their time, and that had been with much of the upper reaches dammed and controlled. He thought that now, with the vast catchment untouched, it would be much more difficult.

They rode until dark, making camp in a clearing in the forest, under the snow covered branches of the deciduous trees. Castiel and Alis stretched out the shelter hides, two big bison skins, stitched together, the heavy wool side up. It would keep the cold off them through the night, suspended between the trees a few feet from the ground. They tethered the horses on a line to one side of the camp instead of hobbling them, lighting two fires, one on either side of the clearing to make any predators, natural or unnatural, think twice about coming near.

"Cas, how far behind Sam are we?" Dean put the empty bowl aside and looked at the angel.

"Valenis said she saw them enter a flat land of lakes, the night before we left. I think it might be Finland." He looked up at Dean. "That's around fifteen or sixteen hundred miles north west of where we are now. It will take us another month to reach the northern coast, but I think that it's only about a week away from Sam."

He finished his meal and put the bowl aside, looking from Dean to Alis, and back. "The ritual will be on the winter solstice, December 21. Cesare cannot perform it any earlier. We'll get there in time, Dean."

"If nothing goes wrong." Dean looked at him. "If we can keep up the pace we're setting now."

"Yes."

"You getting your powers back, Cas?"

"Not that much." Castiel looked at the fire. "I cannot hear or touch Heaven, Dean."

Dean looked down, forcing the clamouring fear and doubt back behind the wall he'd constructed in his mind. "You want to take first watch? I'll take the last."

The angel nodded, glancing at Alis who shrugged. Dean crawled in under the shelter and rolled himself into the bedroll, closing his eyes. A moment later he heard Alis do the same.

"Alis?"

"Yes?"

"Can you see Sam in the water? Like you see the village?" He held his breath, waiting for her answer, not knowing what else he could do to get rid of the tension that was crippling him.

"I don't know. I can see the village because of my mother, she feels the connection as well."

"Can you try? Please?"

"Now?"

"Yeah."

He heard her push back the furs and pull on her boots, draw her cloak around her, digging in her saddlebag for the small silver bowl she used if she had any troubles with natural pools. She slipped from the shelter to fill it, murmuring softly to Castiel as she passed him, hurrying back beneath the shelter when it was full.

He lay on his side, seeing one side of her face outlined by the firelight, the other in shadow as she bent over the bowl and stared down into the dark water, a small line appearing between her brows as she concentrated.

The images in the water were rapid and blurred, and Alis wondered at their accuracy. She saw stone buildings, overgrown, the great blocks pushed aside by the roots of trees. She saw two Scythian soldiers, their eyes flat and black, swinging their curved swords at something that was not within her view. She saw Sam, his back against a stone wall, eyes narrowed as he watched something approaching him, his hands gripping a short grey metal blade. She saw the sun, red on the horizon, sinking and darkness falling quickly over the scene. Then the images were gone, sinking to the bottom again and she looked up.

"I saw him. He is fighting, in a town to the north. Ruins, I think."

"Fighting what?" Dean rolled onto his elbow, staring at her.

"I couldn't see. He had a short sword, and darkness was falling."

Dean swore softly under his breath, dropping back to the ground and rolling away. So much for reassurance that his brother was still alright, he thought bitterly.

"Water doesn't always show the truth, Dean. And sometimes it is better not to see."

He was silent, his eyes closed. She tipped the water out and replaced the bowl in her saddle bag, pulling off her boots again and wriggling into her bedroll.

Even her mother couldn't always see the truth in the water. Fire was more accurate, but harder to control. She wished she'd spent a little more time on training with her mother in those things now, if only to give some peace to the man lying close by. The thought surprised her a little. Would she follow her mother's path?

"He is alive, Dean."

_Yeah_, he thought, _but for how much longer?_

* * *

Vasiliĭ stared at the signal fire blazing on the peak behind Lightning Rock, the village immediately to the north of them. Valenis had been right and the real attack was on Black River. He thought about timing and distances. They could leave as soon as the horses were ready, Torgva could follow, with the reinforcements sent by the villages and Kirill's machines. Ruane would be left to defend the village, but he thought she was capable, and she would have Valenis and the elders to advise her.

He would have to stop along the way, he thought. He would need the warriors from the other villages as he headed north. They could gather perhaps two hundred men and women. Geny was a crafty leader, and Elbek had had experience of warfare as well. He thought they would be able to hold the defences that Dean and Sam had devised until he could get there.

He turned abruptly and climbed down the thick ladder to the ground, looking around the square as he strode to his horse.

"_Gotovylyudi glubinnogo l'da_?"

The roar from the warriors in the square filled the space and echoed from the walls. The horses snorted and stamped their feet, and the gates were pulled open. Vasiliĭ looked down at his daughter, standing beside him.

"You must defend the village if we fail. Torgva will leave when Kirill and the other men and women arrive. Keep the people safe, daughter."

"I will."

She watched him ride out, the men and women falling in behind him, by twos and threes, passing out through the gate and heading north.

* * *

"Fire! Samyaza, we need fire!" Sam yelled across the gap to the Watcher. He spun around, swearing at the chains that slammed into his hip as he swung the short sword in tight circle. The wight popped up from behind him, pointed teeth dripping foul saliva as it leapt onto the sword point and Sam used the creature's weight and momentum to send it crashing into the broken rock to his left.

Two of the demons ran to the fallen trees and began breaking off branches, throwing them feverishly into the square behind them, as Samyaza slashed at the wights that surrounded him.

They'd stopped at the ruins near dusk, after struggling through shallow, brackish pools and deep bogs of the surrounding marshland since dawn. The land was saturated, water bubbling up through the soils and running over the ground, seemingly solid areas sinking under any weight, two more soldiers disappearing in the peat bogs when they'd gone too far out. The sucking noises as they'd been drawn below the ground had reminded Sam of an old film he'd seen about a creature that lived under a swamp and took its victims in just that way. The Watcher had decided that they couldn't keep going with the horses, and the soldiers had transferred their supplies on to their own backs, dumping the saddles and bridles and setting the animals free. Sam had watched them making their way slowly back through the marshes to the forest beyond.

On foot, it had been easier to avoid the deep sucking pits, but their progress had been much slower and much harder. When they'd reached the higher ground and seen the ruins, it had seemed like a good place to rest and eat.

The wights had begun to emerge with the last red rays of the setting sun.

He hadn't seen them before, and had at first thought they were ghouls, feeding off any traveller unlucky enough to stop here. But a closer look had showed him that these creatures had never been human. Grey skinned, with overlong arms and too short legs, barrel torsos and no visible join between the flattened skulls and their long, sloping shoulders, they were surprisingly fast for their ungainly shape, and their skin was thick and hard, the soldiers' trilobate arrows bouncing off them, the curved Scythian scimitars barely scoring them.

It wasn't until one of the Scythians had dropped his sword and pulled out a long knife, the blade distinctively iron and sliding through the skin of the wight attacking him with ease that Sam had realised their error. The Scythians had swords of bronze, perhaps scrounged when the demons had been bound into them. Iron was poison to the wights, as it was to most monsters, and Samyaza had thrown him a short iron sword, and told the soldiers to use their knives, evening the odds against them.

One of the Scythians was pouring oil over the wood when two wights leapt onto him, bearing him down to the ground, his screams muffled as they covered him and began to feed. Sam shut out the dreadful bubbling noises that followed and struck the edge of the sword along the stones next to the wood, sparks flying up from the metal, landing in the oil, igniting the pile with an upward rush of air. Both wights pulled away, scrambling and scurrying back from the fierce light, the loud crackle, as the dried branches lit up. The second Scythian lit another fire, and the wights surrounding the Watcher ran for the shelter of the ruined buildings, Samyaza wiping blood and the sticky saliva from his armour with visible disgust.

"What are they?" He strode to the fire, the five remaining guards gathering between the light of the two bonfires, Sam backing awkwardly between them as the chains caught at his ankles and clanged around his knees.

"Wights, I think." He frowned into the surrounding darkness. They were mentioned heavily in Scandinavian folklore, along with trolls, but were cited as mainly cave-dwellers, a different variety inhabiting the caves of the sea-cliffs on the coast. Iron or steel of any kind defeated them, even a scratch would ensure a slow death by poisoning. Salt would ward off the land wights. Not so effective for the sea wights, for obvious reasons.

"Iron kills them?" Samyaza stood beside him.

Sam nodded. "Or steel."

The Watcher gave him a blank look and he shrugged. "There are a lot of these creatures in these lands, but they usually live in caves."

"What is a ruin but a series of man-made caves?" Samyaza turned his head, looking at the bonfires. "The fires will keep them away from us?"

"Yes. They hunt in the night. We shouldn't have any trouble in the morning."

"Good." He turned back to the Scythians and ordered them to get more wood, to light more fires in a circle around them, to keep them going until dawn. They would be leaving then.

Sam moved back, and sat down on an upthrust piece of broken paving stone. There were now seven of them, himself and the Watcher included. He wondered what they'd meet next, in this harsh land whose folklore had always been particularly bloodthirsty.


	34. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

* * *

Elbek leaned back against the cool stone walls as Kiya cleaned the blood from his face and smoothed the healing paste over the long shallow cut.

"You have to rest, Elbek, you have had no sleep for too long now."

"I'll rest in a while, Kiya." He straightened up and looked around. "How is everyone in here?"

"They are calm, they believe in the defences, in our warriors."

He shook his head slightly. The defences were holding, the demons had repeatedly tried to breach the walls and had repeatedly failed, unable to even get ladders up against them with the salt and iron resisting them. But two days they'd been fighting now, trying to make some sort of impression on the numbers that filled the forest around them, and failing, several buildings had burned to the ground, people were dead, and each hour that passed everyone grew more and more weary, made mistakes, some of which would be fatal.

He stood up, leaning forward to kiss her lightly. "There are too many of them, most of the time we are forced to take cover from the arrow fire, and sooner or later they will succeed in destroying our stores."

"The signal fires were lit. Vasiliĭ, Mikhail and the others will come to our aid."

"When they get here they will be facing an enemy that outnumbers them a hundred to one, Kiya." He went to the narrow slit in the stone wall, able to see a fraction of the grassy field that lay outside of the walls. Everywhere within that constricted view, he could see the Scythian horsemen.

Kiya watched him, seeing his exhaustion take his hope.

The sound of drums, deep and heavy and steady, came from the north and they both turned, eyes widening as they stared at each. Elbek reach out for her hand, and they both ran for the door, and the watchtower.

Elbek came up beside Geny, Kiya moving quietly to stand beside him, and looked past the high tower walls to the long sloping field that led to the forest, and beyond it to the narrow defile they called the Throat. It was filled from side to side with horsemen, more than he'd ever seen in his life, moving in formation down the snow covered incline, a man in the lead, taller than the rest, with copper-bright hair flowing over his shoulders and back.

"Armârôs." Elbek recognised the man from Lev's description. The soldiers kept coming out of the forest behind him, filling the slope, filling the field around the village, filling the woods to the east.

Geny looked at him. "How are we supposed to hold them off?"

* * *

"The Dneiper." Castiel sat on his horse looking at the long, slow river in front of them, thickly forested on both sides.

Alis nodded. "Mother River."

Dean looked at them. "And we have to cross it?" He looked at the far shore, at least two miles away, possibly further.

"Not here." Castiel turned his head, heading north. "We'll cross higher up."

Alis followed him without comment, and Dean looked at the river for a moment longer before wheeling his mare around and trotting after them. The snow lay deeply in the lowlands along the river banks, but was thinner in the forest, and they were making good time, at least.

For the next six days, their days fell into a routine of travelling and camping, a situation that Dean felt was completely surreal given that they were rushing to save his brother and the world from the resurrection of a genocidal angel. They couldn't go any faster, couldn't do any more, but he couldn't reconcile the predictability of their days with the urgency that filled him.

They camped each night an hour or so after sunset, setting up the shelter, gathering wood, cooking their food, repairing their gear, sharpening their weapons, oiling the saddles, their boots and gloves. Castiel took the first watch, till midnight. Alis took the second from midnight to four. Dean took the last watch, from four till dawn. At dawn they ate, packed up the camp and were on their way again. Through the day they rode at a steady trot mostly, stopping for fifteen minutes in every hour to rest the horses, to hunt for game in snowy fields and forests, to eat. Alis talked casually of the animals they saw, their habits and their tracks, Castiel spoke occasionally of the history of the land, or the geography of what they would have to cross next. And always, to their left, the huge river rolled by them, showing no signs of getting any narrower, any easier to cross.

As the days passed, he found it was easier to keep his worry about Sam locked down, found it easier to listen to the conversations, to absorb the information, to keep his thought and feeling separated and although the urgency remained, the tension that had accompanied it was lessened. At least, it was easier to keep his feelings about his brother separated. He hadn't asked her to look in the water again. It was better not knowing.

He stretched out, waking a few minutes before his watch, looking at the low flames of the fire. The last time he'd done this, been in this kind of steady day-to-day life, he'd been fourteen. Him and Sam, staying with Bobby for two months, he remembered, when his father had been hunting somewhere with Jim. That had been in the summer, and Bobby had taught them to track through the woods. He shook his head slightly, rolling over and sitting up.

Alis turned her head at the sound, relaxing as she saw him pull on his boots, buckle the belt around his hips.

"Anything out there?" He came and sat beside her, pulling the heavy fur around his shoulders.

"No, it is quiet tonight. Not even the wolves have been around." She glanced behind them at the fire. "Do you want some tea?"

"Yeah, thanks." He shifted as she got up, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, his back to the fire.

A moment later he heard her soft footfall and looked up, taking the warm cup she offered.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Better." He sipped the hot liquid, rotating it reflexively. "It doesn't hurt to move now."

"Good. We should try to get fresh meat today."

He watched her walk to the shelter, pull off her boots and the heavy fur cloak and spread it over her bedroll, wriggle under it. She had been doing most of the hunting, because he hadn't been able to draw his bow back far enough to get either power or accuracy. He flexed the shoulder again now, feeling the stiffness and a soreness under the joint, but no pain. It would stand some work, might even help if he didn't overdo it.

He settled himself comfortably on the log, letting himself become still. In this watch, these darkest hours before dawn, he could think clearly, and he'd come to welcome the quiet hours with no distractions, his body and senses remaining alert, while his mind turned over the problems, old and new, looking at them, studying them, analysing them.

He tried not to think about the prophecy. Until they reached the sorcerer's island, there was nothing that could be done about it, and he'd already exhausted all the possible literal meanings he could think of to explain the impossibilities of becoming a dragon, of magic swords and imprisoned heavenly children and his brother being a doorway to another plane. It was a waste of time and energy to keep going over those passages, trying to find meanings in them without some new information.

Cas had said that in this world, magic was stronger, more easily accessible because people still used their imaginations. Sympathetic magic, to bring luck to their hunting. Symbolic magic to avert disaster and appease the gods who controlled the weather and the seasons of the earth. Psychic power to see things that happened in distant places, to draw energy in the body and from the elements together for healing. The angel had told him that people had those powers, locked away and latent in the largely unused part of their brains, even in their time, but in the modern world, there were too many distractions, too many diversions for them ever to become active. Magic required concentration.

He wasn't sure he bought it all, but at some level, it made sense to him. The people here lived very close to the natural world. There was little to distract them, to divert them. Entertainment came strictly from their own imaginations, their own creativity. He wondered if, under these circumstances, magic was going to make it possible to defeat the archangel for good.

* * *

Sam could smell the scent of the sea, rising up over the hills in front of them on the fresh north-easterly wind and blowing over them as they descended through the low, scrubby vegetation, much higher grey peaks rising to either side of them, capped with snow.

The land was silent and dark, cloud spread overhead cutting the sunlight, the colours drab, deep green and grey and black. He slowed down as the slope steepened, and they came around the bend in the narrow valley, the deep still water of the fjord reflecting the solemn mountains above.

He couldn't see any signs of a settlement along the flatter fields and forest that lay against the deep inlet's sides, and he wondered if Samyaza's travel arrangements had fallen apart.

The Watcher walked with a long, swinging stride in front of him. Cesare hadn't returned to the man's body for several days now, but Samyaza hadn't quite been himself, either. The five remaining Scythians flanked them both, bows strung and arrows nocked on the strings, watching to either side for any signs that they weren't alone in the silent valley.

They crossed the stream that zigzagged across the open ground, and the valley twisted further to the right, more of the deep water coming into view. Sam saw the Watcher's shoulders drop suddenly, as they approached the shore and saw the longboat, tucked in against the natural rocky quay.

He turned to look over his shoulder at Sam, smiling slightly. "Last leg. Weather permitting, this should only take six or seven days."

Weather permitting, Sam thought sourly. Their destination was not Iceland, then. That must be closer to a thousand miles. He looked at the men sitting on the boat. There were eight of them, tall, heavily muscled, their long hair loose down their backs, held back from their faces in narrow plaits, red and gold and black hair, their eyes the blues and greys of the Aesir.

So much for monsters taking care of his guards, he thought with an inward sigh, following the Watcher down over the crushed stone beach and onto the rock shelf, to the boat.

"Thought you might have gone, Ásbjorn." Samyaza said to the big man whose hand rested lightly on the carved tiller.

"We thought we would have to, but the storm veered south," Ásbjorn answered with a shrug, his eyes turning to Sam as he walked to the side of the ship, dropping to the chains that held his wrists and ankles.

"Will the weather hold for us?" Samyaza kept his gaze on the big man's face, ignoring the obvious curiosity.

Ásbjorn laughed, the sound booming out and echoing over the water, the crew joining in. "Ask Ægir, we do not know the will of the gods over sea and wind and storm."

Sam saw the Watcher's eyes narrow slightly and realised that these men were not possessed. Samyaza had hired them, obviously, but they were not under his control. He felt a slight surge of hope trickle through him.

"Can we leave now?"

"No. We will wait until near sunset. The currents will turn then, and speed us on our way." Ásbjorn looked at the Scythians, the blue eyes becoming thoughtful. "Your men do not look well, ørlendr."

Samyaza glanced over his shoulder, seeing the horsemen as the Norseman did, their skin grey and shadowy where it was beginning to slip from the muscle underneath.

"They will last the journey, Ásbjorn. Other than that, you do not need to know." His voice was curt, and the flame-haired man smiled and shrugged.

* * *

The fjord was dim and filled with deep blue shadows when the boat slipped her moorings and the men ran out the oars, Ásbjorn guiding the sixty foot long vessel down the centre of the deep water. The tides had turned and the whirlpools and vortexes that made the entrance to the fjord dangerous at certain times had vanished. Sam leaned against the thick bulwark, seeing the rills against the smooth water, the tidal current now curving outward from the coast, carrying the ship out and away from the rocks at the base of the cliffs, propelling them toward the open sea.

The breeze freshened as they cleared the coast, and the men unfurled the massive mainsail, the tightly woven fabric bellying out as it caught the breeze, the mast and hull creaking and groaning softly as the sheets were tied off and the sail tautened, transferring the pressure to the mast, to the keel and lifting the boat. They stowed the long oars and tidied the cordage, moving easily around the ship, used to the gentle roll and pitch as she pushed into the swells. Ásbjorn looked up at the sail, and leaned back against the long tiller, his face settling into lines of contentment as his ship barrelled along comfortably.

Sam looked at the sky, still louring and dark with cloud, and wondered how the Norseman was navigating, without view of the stars. He looked back at their wake, running perfectly straight behind them to the coast. There must be some way, he thought absently.

Samyaza came to stand beside him, the Watcher staring over the sea. "_And God said, let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so_." He looked at Sam. "Have you ever seen the waters of the earth, Sam? They cover most of this small planet. Most men have no idea of how much water there really is."

Sam looked at him. "Yes, I've seen it."

The Watcher shook his head. "God gave the planet to mankind, to live and multiply, to learn to become more than any other of his creations. Lucifer hated them, could never see the beauty or the promise in them. The war in Heaven … it went on for a long time, Sam. A long, long time."

"How can Lucifer be released before his time, Samyaza? Before the proper time of punishment has ended?"

The Watcher shrugged. "I do not know, Sam. Cesare has found a way, through changing the lines of Destiny, but I do not know how he found it, or why it works against God's will, his Word."

"A back door, maybe." Sam mused, mostly to himself. There were always loopholes for those prepared to search for them. Four years of pre-law had made that clear to him, shattering much of his idealism before he'd even started.

* * *

Vasiliĭ lay on his stomach, concealed within the stands of tall bracken that swathed the forest floor, staring down at the field in front of him, his heart pounding against his chest. So many of them, he thought. Already the ground was churned over, the snow ground into the mud and the mud frozen and broken apart again. The walls of Black River were still intact, although from this vantage point he could see that many buildings inside had been destroyed. He hoped that Elbek and Geny had been able to move their winter stores inside the keep before they'd lost too much.

Beside him, silently watching the army, Torgva's eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. The machines that Kirill had built could do some serious damage here. They would need to be placed to their best advantage, however. And they needed several attacks, each one undermining the army, confusing it so that they could get more people into the village, to let the defenders get rest.

They moved slowly backwards, inching their way through the undergrowth to prevent any movement of the plants that sheltered them. When they were safely below the crest of the hill, both men rolled to their feet and made their way down through the forest and across the river.

Kirill stood beside the large machine, rubbing quantities of fat into the axles. He turned and straightened as he saw them approaching.

"Well? Can we get to them?"

"How far will that thing throw, Kirill?" Torgva stared at the heavy timbers, the wheels and ropes that criss-crossed the underside of the heavy beams.

"I have only run a few trials, Torgva, but depending on the weight of the object, it will reach," he turned, looking around them, "from here to the line of trees there." He pointed at the forest, five hundreds yards distant.

Torgva nodded. "And from a hill? Will it go further?"

Vasiliĭ looked at him, seeing the shape of his thoughts. He turned to Kirill.

"Yes, maybe. The distance will be increased perhaps half again from a reasonable height."

Vasiliĭ looked at the machine. "To the south of the village, in front of the signal peak, there is a well-forested hillside. We can defend it, the slope rises steeply on the river side." He turned back to Kirill. "Can we get this thing up there?"

"If you give me enough horses, yes. It needs a clear area to fire, Vasiliĭ."

"That is not a difficulty."

"The army will see us if we take too long to do this, Vasiliĭ." Torgva rubbed his hand over his beard, thinking through all the possibilities for the attack.

Vasiliĭ nodded. "We clear the trail to the top now. Tonight we take it up. Those bombs that Dean made. They are not too heavy for the machine?"

Kirill started to smile. "No, they are very light, they will go a long way."

"Lev knows how to set the fuses," he stumbled over the unfamiliar word slightly. "If we can panic the horses, panic the men, it will give us enough time to break the lines, get a hundred men into the village, with the other machines."

Torgva nodded. "Those are more accurate."

"We need to make it impossible for them to stay close to the village, make them withdraw beyond the reach of the machines."

Kirill nodded. "How many of the bombs do you have?"

"Ten." Vasiliĭ wished that they had more. Torgva knew how to make the gunpowder and the casings but being able to move around to collect the guano, the sulphur from the volcano, that was not possible now. He thought that it would be enough, to reinforce Black River and convince the army that they would not be able to break through.

"If this works, it will be a feat worth telling, Vasiliĭ." Kirill grinned at the leader.

"If it works, it will not be our feat, my friend." He turned away, gesturing to the warriors who waited for their orders.

Torgva looked at Kirill. "How many horses do you need?"

* * *

Dean leaned against the tree trunk, his head turned slightly, Alis in the corner of his vision several trees away. The young bull was oblivious to them, pulling the leaves from a shrub, ears flicking back and forth, but not really worried about being disturbed.

He caught the movement as she rose slowly behind her own tree and began to inch his way up the trunk, fingers closing around the smooth shaft of the arrow nocked onto the string, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of remaining completely silent.

He saw Alis nod and they stepped out from behind the trunks at the same time, the elk lifting its head, nostrils flaring as the arrows hit its body together, grey fletching standing out against the thick dun coat behind the shoulder, the heads buried in the great muscled walls of its heart. It dropped slowly to the ground, forequarter falling first, and they walked to the body, Alis pulling the long knife from the sheath at her hip, as Dean pulled both arrows from the animal.

The blood was shockingly bright against the snow, congealing almost instantly with the cold, and he lifted the long coil of rope from over his shoulder, tying the hindlegs together and throwing the free end over a thick branch a few feet away as Alis stepped back.

He hauled the dead elk across the ground, the rear end lifting as he started to take the full weight up. Alis stood close to him, her hands interleaved between his on the rope, both pulling together to lift the animal from the ground and into the air. His shoulder was twingeing a little at the weight, damned animal weighed near five hundred pounds, he thought as the shoulders then head came up.

"How high?" He grunted to her as the hooves got close to the bottom of the branch.

"That will do." Alis looked up and took the tail of the rope, wrapping it several times around the base of the tree and tying it off. "You can let go."

He loosened his grip, seeing the rope stretch slightly as the weight took all the slack out, then stop. The blood was running freely from the opened throat and he looked around the silent forest, wondering how long it would take the predators to show up.

"How much are we taking?"

"As much as we can carry. It will freeze and stay frozen now, unless we are very unlucky. It will feed us for a long time."

He looked at her as she stropped the blade of her knife over the leather strap that was looped through her belt for that purpose. The animal was young, he thought, looking at the barely branched antlers. Any older and he didn't think they'd have gotten it into the tree.

"I'll get the horses." He turned away, heading down the forest trail to the clearing where they'd left them.

Alis watched the blood running out as she sharpened the edge to razor keenness. It would have been better to let the animal hang for a day or more but they didn't have that much time, and the opportunity to get enough meat to keep going for so long couldn't be ignored. The wolves and the scavengers would eat whatever they couldn't take, she thought, nothing would be wasted. She had thanked the animal for giving up its life for them, and the gods for allowing the hunt to be quick and clean.

Dean walked fast through the trees, the bow in one hand with an arrow already nocked onto the string. He'd gotten faster at getting his arrows onto the string and firing. with practise, but it was easier to carry the bow loaded if he really had to move fast. He moved his shoulder around, feeling a faint throbbing in the muscle that lay under the hole in it. He wasn't certain that the ache was no more than the effort of lifting the weight of the young elk, not any damage. _It'll either get better or worse_, he thought.

The two mares stood patiently in the small clearing, looking up at him when he walked up to them. He slipped the reins free and mounted his, turning her and leading the dun, following the trail back at a steady jog.

They'd done some hunting with Bobby, when they were kids. Mostly rabbit, some duck. Bobby hadn't been able to convince either of them to kill deer. There'd been no need for the meat and killing for the sake of killing hadn't appealed to either brother. He smiled slightly, remembering the old man's sour expression as he'd realised that they were missing the animals deliberately.

The horses snorted softly at the smell of blood as he rode into the snowy clearing. He slid off and tied them, looking over as Alis worked the hide off the hindlegs and down off the back. She'd stripped off the close fitting hide jacket and all but one of the homespun shirts under that, her arms bloodied almost to the shoulder, a bright smear over one cheek.

The animal had been gutted, the internal cavity empty and clean. He walked toward her, ready to offer some help, when she looked over at him and shook her head.

"It is easier if I only have to worry about where my hands are, not yours as well." She glanced around the perimeter of the clearing. "Keep watch. I will need your help soon to cut loose the meat."

He nodded, and moved behind her, watching the trees, trying to hear over the tearing and slight sucking noises behind him as she cut and pulled the hide free, the knife slicing through the thin white membrane that attached skin to the muscle.

He glanced back at the sound of the pieces of the heavy hide hitting the ground, hearing her loud exhale as she straightened up. She cleaned the knife in the snow and started sharpening it again. Cutting through hair and hide invariably blunted the edge more quickly than through the meat.

"How are we carrying it exactly?" He looked at the skinned carcass.

"We will cut it up, wrap it in the pieces of hide." She shrugged slightly as she tested the edge against her thumb and moved back to the elk. "It will keep it clean."

It took nearly another hour to cut enough meat free to fill the hide, and Dean lifted the pieces of skin, holding them together, wrapped around the meat as she bound the bundles tightly. There were four large bags when they were done, and she tied them together, the two of them lifting the heavy bags over the front of the saddle bows. Dean untied the horses, leading them to the edge of the trail, and she released the rope, the remains dropping to the ground. She freed the hindlegs and coiled the rope up slowly.

Dean looked at her, seeing the tremor in her muscles from the sustained effort of the work.

"You okay?"

She looked up at him with a weary smile. "Yes, it is tiring, to have to go fast like that." She dropped to her knees in a clean patch of snow, picking up handfuls and rubbing them over her arms, washing the dried blood from her arms and hands. She wiped her hands over her face, and stood up, pulling on the thicker shirts, the jacket and the fur cloak.

He stood behind her as she leaned briefly against her horse, moving around to her side and offering his hands to give her a boost into the saddle. She looked down at them with a slight smile and put her knee into them, bracing herself and swinging her right leg over as he straightened up.

He looked up at her. "Next time, show me what to do, and I'll do it."

The laughter in her eyes was gentle. "Yes, when we are not in such a hurry, I will show you."

* * *

Castiel looked up as they rode back into the camp. He'd ridden a little way along the river while they'd been gone, seeing the narrowing of the banks only a few miles ahead. They could cross over in the morning, and they would be barely a day's ride from the marshes.

The roasting meat smelled delicious, filling the campsite as Dean hung the remaining hide bags high in the trees, out of reach, to freeze in the night. They ate as much as they could fit in, the rich grease dripping from their chins. The meat and fat was an easily absorbed source of energy, essential to resisting the cold, to having the strength to keep up the physical demands of the travelling. Dean looked at the chunk of meat in his hand, wondering how Sam would have felt about a meat-only meal. He stretched back against his saddle, licking his fingers, as he finished the last of it.

"Cas and I will take the watches tonight, Alis. You should get a full night's sleep."

She looked at him in surprise. "I can take my watch, Dean."

He shook his head. "You did all the work today. You deserve a night off."

"If you insist," she said, shrugging. A full night's sleep would be a luxury.

* * *

Alis woke at midnight, then remembered she had the night off. She rolled over in her bedroll, closing her eyes again, listening to the snap and crackle of the fire. Her eyes opened again as she heard the soft grunt of pain.

Dean winced as he shifted his position. The shoulder had been fine until he'd hauled the hide bags into the tree, he thought, moving it slowly as the ache spread through the muscle.

Alis sat up, turning around to look at him, her voice quiet. "What is it?"

He looked looked down at his chest. "I think I just twisted it the wrong way when I getting the bags into the tree." He lifted the arm, feeling the point where the muscle hurt. "You got any of that paste here?"

She pushed the fur cover back and went to her saddle bag, crouching beside it and pulling out the small clay pot. The mixture helped deep muscle injury, any injury where the skin was unbroken.

"Where is the pain?" she spoke softly, walking over to him.

"Doesn't feel like it's all way through, mostly this side." He looked down at the front of the shoulder, over the pectoral muscle where the arrow had entered. Alis looked down at the arm.

"Can you lift your arm, without it hurting?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Strain in the muscle lower down then." She nodded, gesturing to the fire. "Get close to the fire."

Dean sat closer to the fire, pulling off the leather and plate cuirass, woollen surcoat, then the thick shirt under that. Even next to the warmth of the fire, the cold reached for him, and he turned slightly, moving his bare skin closer to the flames. Alis put another couple of logs on, and drew the edge of the homespun shirt he'd left on down far enough to see the wound and just below it.

She put the jar close to the fire to soften and warm it, her fingers gently probing the muscle that he'd said was painful. She could feel it, a slight thickening of the muscle under the wound.

"It is a little swollen." She reached for the clay pot and scooped the paste out with her fingers. "Did you have to pull suddenly?"

He thought about lifting the bags up and remembered the rope slipping through his hands, he'd tightened his grip and yanked down then. "Yeah, it slipped a little and I overcompensated."

She nodded, and smoothed the paste over the skin, her fingertips moving in slow circles as she worked outward, then back in. "Is there any pain in the back, behind the shoulder?"

"No."

He sat completely still, watching her fingers move over the muscle, her scent mingling with the sweet smell of the paste, filling his head, his awareness stretched out. The world had drawn in around them, narrowed down to the half-circle of firelight that enclosed them. The circling of her fingers slowed further, and subtly, the touch changed, from firm massage to a softer caress. He looked at her face, hearing the increasing beat of his heart in his ears, drowning out the other sounds, as she watched her fingers moving over his skin.

"Alis …"

She lifted her head, and his breath caught in his throat, his heart stuttered against his ribs as their eyes met. The world around them slowed, time telescoping out, the seconds hesitating too long. Her face was soft, vulnerable, and the heat of desire he felt flooding through his body was mirrored in her eyes. He lifted his hand, his fingertips touching the curve of her cheek, trailing down to the line of her jaw and he leaned closer to her, her breath fluttering against his lips, his gaze holding hers.

She blinked, shifting backward abruptly, turning away from him, her breath ragged in her throat. Her eyes were tightly shut as she gestured to the pot by the fire, her voice low. "You can do this, work it into the muscle, whenever it feels sore."

He dragged in a deep breath, watching as she rolled to her feet, moving quickly back to the shelter, to her bedroll, pulling off her boots and sliding into it without looking back at him.

_What the hell just happened?_


	35. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

* * *

"You are cold?"

Sam looked up at the deep voice, seeing Ásbjorn standing next to him. He was hunched into the narrow space between two of the thick half-log thwarts that sat amidships, out of the downdraught of the sail, but still caught periodically by the spray as the side of the ship hit a wave, the chill water soaking him, exacerbated by the wind that had freshened in the last few hours and was blowing from the quarter at a steady twenty five knots now.

"Just wet." Sam shrugged, looking at the soaked leather and homespun and furs covering the other man. The Norsemen were tall, for this time, but still several inches under his own height, something that had raised their brows when he boarded the ship. They were heavier though, with broad shoulders and deep chests, muscle built over a lifetime of hard, physical labour and scarred from the battles they'd fought along the long coastline and on journeyings into the mainland waterways. Ásbjorn moved around his ship like a cat, his balance and reflexes automatic with each roll of the vessel over the sea, anticipating the movements with ease.

He reached past Sam to a deep wooden chest that stood behind the mast, lifting the lid and taking out a tightly woven length of cloth, waxed and smooth. As he closed the lid, he spoke quietly to Sam.

"It is not our way to see a man chained like a dog. If anything should happen to the ship, you will be not be dragged down to drown, I will see to it."

Sam kept his eyes on the cloth in his lap. "Thank you."

Ásbjorn straightened up, and gestured to the cloth. "That will keep the water off. And the wind out."

He turned away and returned to the tiller, glancing at the Scythian soldiers as he passed them, his nose wrinkling a little in distaste. As Sam had thought, the constant moisture was accelerating their decomposition and they stood downwind of the crew, lined up along the leeward bulwark, no more happy to be there than the Norsemen were to have them there.

Sam unfolded the cloth and wrapped it around himself. The wind was cut out immediately, and he could feel his body heat returning. The spray from another wave slapped against the outside, running off the cloth. He pulled it further around, angling himself away from wind and water and closed his eyes. _An unexpected ally, that was good_. He listened to the wind's low moan through the tight rope rigging and the rush of foam under him, the creak and groan of the hull timbers, and the low laughter of the men further aft, feeling his body warming, tiredness creeping in. Sleep was a welcome respite and he gave himself up to it.

* * *

Lev stared down at the round casings, counting off the feet of the fuse as Dean had taught him. They wanted the casings to land on the ground before they went off, not to explode in the middle of the air. He had to get this right or they would be wasting their most valuable weapon.

Behind him, the catapult had been moved into position, Kirill calculating the distance and trajectory several times before he was satisfied that the round metal objects would land where he wanted them to. He missed Sam and the way the younger man's mind could do this almost without effort. Twelve years of mathematics, Sam had told him wryly, knowing that the word had no meaning to the smith, but the concept of calculation, of measurement and accuracy would. The machine was slightly behind the top of the rise, hidden from view from the ground, but with the additional height, more than capable of reaching the target.

Torgva waited in the thick forest a half mile away, with Vasiliĭ and their small warrior army. He would lead a hundred of the warriors straight to the gates, and take Kirill's other machine as well, as Vasiliĭ led the others to flank and drive the Watcher's horsemen from the field, harrying them from the forest edge while the bombs exploded around them. It was a good plan, he thought. The horses would panic, the men as well, even the demons inside them would panic at the noise and the fire, not being able to see the extent of the threat in the darkness.

Kirill glanced over at Lev, watching him using his forearm as a standard measure for each length of fuse. He would have to ask the hunter to tell him about this, he thought. If they were successful and they both made it out of the battle alive.

"Are they ready?"

Lev looked up and nodded, carrying the first to the metal cup that had been cranked down at the rear of the machine, setting it inside and unwinding the length of fuse.

Kirill nodded to his apprentice and the young man opened the small clay box, positioning the red ember it held to the free end of the fuse. The fuse lit immediately, sparking and crackling as the flame consumed it. Kirill released the lever and began winding the heavy beam back down to its firing position immediately, his head turning to watch the casing lift into the air, the fuse still flaming, in a flat arc over the river and into the field in front of the village. Lev lifted the second casing into the cup as the bomb exploded, sending the demon army into chaos, killing at least two of the horses and rides who had been close to where it landed, the shrapnel from the casing moving fast in the outward blast, penetrating everything it encountered.

After the third explosion, Vasiliĭ led the warriors through the trees, screaming their battle cries and galloping toward the Scythians, the archers firing from their horses as they got close to the confused soldiers. The army turned from the attack, wheeling away together. The darkness, the noise and bone-jarring shock of the explosions, the flaming arrows flying through the air convincing them that a much greater enemy had arrived. Nearly a quarter of the men were on the ground, thrown or falling from their horses as the casings hit the earth around them, the concussive waves and showers of dirt sending the animals into a frenzy. They pulled their swords free, demon eyes black, to find that the warriors that galloped and ran to them were carrying black swords, and a single killing stroke lit up the bodies in red and gold, the demons locked inside dying.

Torgva nodded to his warriors as the eighth casing fell, and they rode out from between the trees, crossing the river at a hand gallop, the ballista bouncing and rumbling behind the horses drawing it.

On the palisade wall, Geny and Elbek stood and watched as Dean's bombs fell onto the army from the night sky, and hundreds of warriors appeared from the river, yelling and chasing the fleeing troops up the northern slope. Geny turned as he heard the rumble of heavy wheels on the frozen track, recognising the round shield of the leader.

"Open the gates! Open the gates!" He shouted to the gatekeepers, running toward the ladder that led down to the square. Elbek followed him, bow raised to provide covering fire if any of the Watcher's army turned back. None did, and he watched Alis' father riding under him, through the gates with a hundred men and women riding behind him, and the war machine behind them.

* * *

Vasiliĭ watched the riders, loose horses and men running north, and turned his horse, cantering across the churned and littered ground, the men and women under his command turning and following as he passed them. He didn't see the Scythian rising from the ground until his horse was on him, the man's hands gripping his cloak and belt and pulling him down as his horse snorted and leapt aside. He rolled free of the grip, pulling his long sword from its scabbard, shaking his head slightly to clear it, watching the man's flat black eyes gleaming in the darkness, a hundred small fires over the field reflecting in them.

The soldier was about his own size and weight, and he watched his hands, the short akinake held in one, a longer, curving bronze sword held in the other. Two-handed fighter, not from the steppes but further west, he thought. He pushed aside thought and focussed on the man, glancing from side to side for a shield as he backed slowly toward the forest.

When the attack came, it was fast, and he felt the akinake slice through the leather of his pauldron, barely able to keep his fingers around the hilt of his sword as pain sheeted down the arm. He twisted away from the follow up move, the longer sword stabbing past him, and swung his leg out, the heel driving into the side of the Scythian's knee and bringing him down. Vasiliĭ clenched his jaw as he tightened his grip on his sword, swinging it around in a flat arc but the Scythian had anticipated the move and was already gone, rolling backward under the sword and coming to his feet a few feet away.

Vasiliĭ stared at him, flexing his fingers around the hilt. There was numbness in the arm, and two of the fingers were no longer responding, the cut had taken out some nerves. The demon stared back at him, watching the older man's wariness, seeing the hesitation to move in for an attack and it smiled.

* * *

The river had narrowed as the level of the ground dropped, in a series of broad, flat steps that had created several passable fords. It was no more than sixty feet to the other side here. Dean watched as Alis led her horse across the topmost ford, the broad rocky shelf only two or three feet below the surface, its underwater surface firm and scoured, the rough rock providing a good grip. When she climbed the far bank, she turned and waved, then led the mare up the narrow trail and into the forest that crowded the other side.

Castiel glanced at him and waded into the water, feeling the strength of the current against his legs, and moving slowly along the path Alis had taken. When the angel was halfway across, Dean followed him, swearing at the frigidity of the water as it rose quickly up his legs, shunting aside the discomfort and concentrating on reaching the other side.

The horses bounded up the bank, following Alis along the trail. She'd already lit a small fire where the trees opened a little off the track, and was rubbing down her legs by its warmth, her wet boots and pants set close to the side, spare clothing next to her. She looked up and pulled on the dry pants and boots as they tied the horses and walked to the fire, stripping off the wet clothing before it could freeze on them, dragging on spares from their saddlebags.

"That wasn't as bad as I'd feared." Castiel looked over the fire at Alis.

She nodded, putting the small iron pot over the flames. "My mother said it was a safe place to cross. Further up the river the water is much faster." She put a handful of the restorative tea into the pot. "We will reach the marsh just before nightfall, I think."

"Do we go straight in?" Castiel asked.

Alis shook her head. "No, we will make camp in the forest and go in by day. We will have to spend two nights in the marsh, it is very wide, but the less hours of darkness we are in there, the better our chances of surviving it."

Dean wrung out the wet pants and set them close to the fire to dry. "Awesome. What's in the marsh that's going to try and kill us?"

Alis looked over at him. "Whisperers."

He remembered her description of the creatures from their first conversation in the hall. _Crocottas_. He sat down, and rubbed his hand over his face. _Just what they needed_.

They drank the hot tea when it was ready, and packed away the damp clothing, mounting and heading due north for the marshes after the short rest. Alis rode point, Castiel in the middle and Dean brought up the rear, the horses used to their places, leaving a length's gap between themselves and rarely needing to be pushed or slowed on the trail.

Dean watched the horses in front of him, his senses alert to the sounds of the forest around them, his mind fully engaged in trying to determine what had happened the previous night.

When dawn had come that morning, Alis had risen without showing the slightest sign that anything had happened between them in the night. She had made the tea, and the porridge, passed him the food, spoken to both himself and Castiel without any hint that there was anything wrong. Except, he thought, that the small measure of trust, of companionship, that had been building very slowly since they'd left the village, had gone.

He hadn't been mistaken, going over the memory of that drawn out moment again. It had been desire he'd seen in her eyes. He didn't know what had gone wrong, in less than the space of an indrawn breath, but he was positive that he wasn't mistaken about that. He felt a return of the frustration he'd felt then. What had he done wrong?

She'd been with two of the men in the village in the ten months he'd known her. He didn't think it had been fear or a lack of knowledge of what had been about to happen that had driven the reaction. Because he was a foreigner? A stranger? It was possible, he guessed, but that hadn't seemed like a problem for the women of the village on midsummer's eve. And it hadn't been the first time he'd seen the response from her when they'd been close, he remembered. In the storeroom, on the ladder, there had been that same feeling, as if time had slowed down, standing close to each other, that same awareness, before she'd looked away and hurried out of the room.

He shook his head slightly. Was it him? He couldn't remember doing anything or saying anything, not even thinking anything, just feeling. And he knew, he _knew_, that she'd felt the same. He'd had enough experience to know what a woman was feeling, to know when it was mutual, and when it wasn't.

Whatever it was, whatever he'd done or she'd felt, it was done. He pushed the memories away, and looked around, focussing his concentration on the woods to either side, on the dangers of the marsh in front of them, on whatever else he could think of.

* * *

"Sam, wake up."

Fingers gripped his shoulder, shaking him. For a moment, between deep sleep and waking, Sam thought he was in the car, scrunched into the corner between the door and the seat, warm and sleeping, that it was his asshole brother trying to wake him.

"I'm sleeping, Dean, leave me alone."

The deep chuckle beside him brought him back to consciousness immediately.

"Ah yes, Dean. Your brother." The voice was deeper than Samyaza's, the Watcher's smooth baritone deepened to bass, the inflexions archaic, formal. _Cesare_.

Sam lifted his head, opening his eyes and looking into the red-tinted silver irises of the possessed fallen angel.

"He'll be coming for me, you know." Sam stared into the mage's eyes. "And you don't want to be in his way when he's pissed."

Samyaza smiled. "You have a lot of faith in him, that's touching. I'm surprised actually, considering that he hasn't really protected you from anything that's happened in your life." The Watcher glanced past him briefly. "Your father didn't manage to either."

"You don't know anything about my family." Fear rose up his throat, hot and acid and foul-tasting.

"Oh, Sam, I do. I do now." The eyes gleamed red. "I know a lot about you now. I know that your brother failed to stop you from being killed, and had to make a deal with a minion of the underworld to bring you back. I know that he failed to convince you that a demon was leading you to release the devil from his prison."

"Those weren't his failings, Cesare, they were mine." Sam's hands lifted involuntary and they both looked down at the chains for a moment as they clanked against the thwart.

The Watcher's smile broadened. "And yes, you. You've failed him time after time as well, haven't you? Thinking that you were strong enough to kill a demon, thinking you were clever enough to fool him, thinking that your brother wasn't as strong as you were, couldn't handle the truth, couldn't handle your strength. I'm surprised he's even following you, he would be better off wiping his hands of you and making his own way in the world."

Sam flinched from the words. They were no worse than the things he'd told himself, but hearing them spoken aloud felt as if his skin had been laid open.

"He won't make it here, you know that, of course. He's in the marsh right now, and if he makes through that, the angel will lead him to my old fortress … and I can assure you, none of them will make it out of there alive. All my traps are still intact, still holding the creatures, still lethal. No one has been in there and made it out yet."

Sam stilled. Dean was following. And Castiel with him. The marshes were more than halfway, there would still be time. He wondered if he should tell the mage that his brother was the Corival. It might shake him, might take the armies out of the mountains and save the people in the villages. But it might give the mage warning, might give Lucifer warning, might focus their attention on his brother and get him killed before he could do what he had to do. He sat silently, his thoughts spinning chaotically through his mind.

"You've never come close to winning, Sam." Samyaza watched him. "You don't have the strength and neither does your brother. Your weakness will be your undoing this time as well as all the others. And his. And while I would be merciful enough in any other circumstances to let you die together, unfortunately my need to keep a tight control over the Fates does not allow me to give you that release. You and your brother and the angel will last a long time as the living sacrifice."

The Watcher stood, swaying against the motion of the ship. "Nothing is going to stop me, Sam. Nothing is going stop the Lord of Darkness."

* * *

Valenis stared fixedly into the dark water, not seeing or feeling the tears that rolled down her cheeks, splashing softly on the smooth wood of the table. The images were clear, rolling on and on, showing her detail she would rather not have known.

Black River had been saved. She straightened as the water became clear again, wiping her face impatiently with the back of her hand. The Watcher's army did not know that they had only two of the bombs left. But if they returned to the village, they would feel again the explosive blasts and she hoped that they would draw the obvious conclusion.

_Vasiliĭ was dead._

She felt her sorrow rising again and pushed it away. There would be time to grieve for the fallen when the people were safe. To give in to her feelings now would only make her weaker. And she could not be weak now.

She thought of the leader's daughter and wondered what Ruane's reaction would be. Leadership was not hereditary in the villages, leaders were chosen by common consent, but it often followed that a leader's son or daughter had the strength and the courage and the wit to follow them, and to build on what their parents had achieved. Vasiliĭ's father had been the leader of Deep Ice before he'd been killed.

Ruane was already bearing sorrow. The healer stood up slowly, uncertain of whether or not she should add to that now. She sighed. Sooner or later, the girl would find out. It would be better for everyone if she found out from someone who cared about her, than from someone who didn't know her as well, didn't know about Sam.

Torgva would be returning now, she knew, he would leave Elbek with the ballistas and Kirill with the group defending the war machine on the hill, and he would come back to them. She turned and left the room, hurrying up through the square to the keep. There was a lot to prepare with the warriors returning to the village, and decisions to be made about what to do next.

* * *

The marshes felt warmer to Dean than the surrounding countryside. He looked down at the frozen reeds, the thin glitter of the ice at the edges of the pools, the hard crusts of frozen mud, and shook his head at the proof that it probably wasn't. It still felt warmer than the forests and occasional open fields they'd spent the previous day riding through.

His mare picked her way through the shallow ponds of standing water, over the soft tussocks of dead grass, and around the rotting trees, following closely behind Cas' horse, both of them sticking to the trail that Alis was leading them along. The lonely cry of a loon sounded toward the edges of the forest, and he looked around, realising that they were leaving the forest behind quickly despite their slow pace, he could no longer see the river bend where they'd entered the bogs.

He couldn't see the signs that Alis was following, the whole damned place looked the same to him. Trust hadn't ever been something that had come easily to him, or that he took lightly, and he found it hard to trust Alis' assertions that she could lead them safely through the bogs and quickmud, that this was the quickest way to Sam.

They'd ridden into the marshes after dawn, the mists rising from the moist ground clinging to them for hours until the sun had gained enough height and heat to dissipate them. Now, as it rode low near the horizon, the mists were rising again, filmy and tenuous, spiralling lazily above the stretches of flat, silvered pools, gaining strength as the heat disappeared from the air, and the cool blue shadows began to fall across the land.

Less than half an hour later he squinted through the thick grey mist, unable to see Castiel for more than a few minutes at a time. He pushed his mare forward, until she was crowding the rump of the angel's horse.

Ahead, Alis stopped on an islet, barely big enough to contain the three horses and themselves.

"We will have to stop here. It's too easy to lose the path now." She glanced around the silent country. "And the Whisperers and näkki will be stirring soon."

Dean frowned. "Näkki?"

"Water spirits. Sometimes they're malevolent, sometimes not. It is better not to take a chance with them."

She dismounted, moving the mare to the centre of the islet, untying her saddlebag and pulling out several small bags. Without looking at either man, she began to walk around the perimeter of the solid ground, spilling a fine grey powder from one of the bags she held, moving clockwise.

Dean and Castiel slid from their horses, holding them and watching her as she moved around them in a circle.

"What is that?" Castiel looked at the trail she left.

"The barrier for the protective circle we will need tonight." She glanced up at him, stopping as reached the beginning of the circle again. "This will keep us safe. You must not leave the circle. You will not find your way back to it once you are outside of it. It does not make us disappear, exactly, but it makes us very hard to see."

Dean looked down at the grey powder along the ground. He'd made protective circles before, of salt, of symbols. He knew the way they worked.

She opened the second bag and walked the other way, the pale pink powder dusting the ground over the grey line.

"Stay away from the line. If you break the circle, I cannot remake it and we will be seen."

There was no possibility of a fire, and the frozen elk meat remained in the hide bags as they chewed on flatbread and dried fruit. The air was damp and cold, the horses moved restively, but remained within the circle. None of them felt like prolonging the evening, climbing into bedrolls as soon as the scant meal was finished. Dean looked over at Cas, the angel taking the first watch, sitting hunched against the damp, moist air, his eyes watching the darkness. Alis was little more than a lump under the furs of hers and he looked away, shifting against the saddle, trying to find a place where the tussocks didn't dig into his ribs.

* * *

It was an hour past midnight when he woke suddenly, hearing his brother's voice on the still night air. He sat up, looking around.

"It is the Whisperers, Dean. They have been calling for some time now." Alis' voice came out of the darkness to his right.

He stared into the blackness surrounding them, unable to see anything, not even his hand as he lifted it in front of his face. The mists were still there, he could feel the clammy touch of the moisture on his face.

"Is it warmer here?" He thought they'd be sheeted in ice by this time of the night.

"A little, the bogs give off a small amount of heat all the time as the plants rot inside of them."

He looked around again, hearing the drip of water and odd, intermittent pops and crackles from the bogs around. It took several minutes for his eyes to register the thread of light that outlined a pond several yards away, a greenish white light that was brightening very gradually. He frowned at it, trying to see what was causing it.

"Alis? Do you see that?"

He heard the whisper of the fur as she turned toward him.

"Näkki. Don't look at them." Her voice was low, the command sharp. He turned from the phosphorescent light reluctantly.

"What do they do?" he asked, realising that behind him the light was continuing to brighten, he could make out the edge of the fur around him, the quarters of the horses standing to one side of the circle. The thought of something moving behind him, emerging behind him, strummed on his nerves. He tightened his control over the desire to turn around and look at whatever it was that was there.

"They are … shapeshifters, appearing to those who come near as loved ones or as a man or woman of great beauty to seduce them," she said. "They draw their victims back into the water and drown them, then eat them."

"Huh. Nice." Dean looked toward her. "So they won't attack us?"

He could see the outline of her profile now and he saw her shake her head. "No, they cannot cross the circle." She glanced his way, her gaze on the ground. "You should go back to sleep."

He nodded, lying down and pulling the fur over his shoulder, closing his eyes. Against the lids he could see the light shifting and he wondered if Alis had her eyes closed against the näkki, or if she watched them emerging from the pools. He opened his eyes again, seeing her face clearly now, her eyes closed tightly and turned away from the light.

The movement was in the corner of his vision and he turned toward it automatically. The woman stood, ankle deep in the water just outside of the circle. His eyes widened as he looked at her, his heart starting to hammer against his chest. The light faded from the smooth pale flesh, and he saw long blonde hair, with its distinctive curl at the ends. Her face was oval, the jawline clear and delicate, yet still strong. Large blue-grey eyes looked at him, the darker lashes framing them against her fair skin. He watched as his mother smiled at him, a gentle love in her eyes, the way he remembered her looking at him when he was sick, or in bed, ready for sleep.

"Dean? Come on, it's time to get up, time to go, baby." Her voice was Mary's, neither high nor low, made memorable by the soft burr in it, warm and filled with tenderness.

He lay there, hunched under the fur, staring at her, knowing it was a trick, it was a monster under her face, but unable to look away, unable to deny himself the chance to see her again, the way he remembered her, would always remember her, young and beautiful and comforting, the last remnant of his world when it had been safe and secure and his biggest problem had been deciding on what kind of pie he wanted for dessert.

"Dean, come with me, sweetheart, we'll make it just as it was." She was on the edge of the circle, the vague outline of clothing resolving into the white cotton summer dress he'd last seen her wearing, the crisp white material bright against the smooth, golden summer tan that had persisted even into fall. Just a trick, he told himself, closing his eyes. It's not real, it's not her.

"Dean." Her voice was a soft whisper in his thoughts, drawing out every memory he had of her, wrapping him in them. "This time it could be different, the family together again, no pain, no loss."

"No." The word felt like broken glass, coming out of his throat. "This isn't real."

"I can take the pain away." He saw her, even behind his eyelids. "I can heal you."

He didn't feel himself moving, didn't feel the fur slide off his shoulder as he sat up.

She took a step back, into the water and he leaned forward, his attention, his senses, every fibre of his being completely focussed on her, and the longer he looked at her, the more he believed, the more he felt that it was his mother, alive somehow in this time, this place, come back for him.

"Dean!"

He heard the voice distantly, some very small part of his mind registering the urgency in it, but pushing it away as he watched his mother take another small step backward into the water. She couldn't be leaving, not now, not again, not when he needed to tell her so much, ask her so many things, not when he had so much pain and needed her help.

"Dean! Turn away!"

The voice was closer and he saw the face of his mother change slightly, brows drawing together and lips lifting away from her even white teeth. He felt fingers dig into his shoulder, pulling him hard, and he shook them off, rolling onto his knees as Mary stepped back again. He wasn't aware that his eyes were still shut.

Hands against his chest, shoving him backward, and someone blocked his view, his mother disappearing behind a face and a loose cloud of auburn hair. He fell back against the saddle, feeling the weight of a body lying on top of him, then warm lips against his mouth. The thoughts of Mary fractured into a thousand pieces as Alis kissed him, and the urgent demand of the kiss ignited a heat that rushed out through him and crackled along his nerves.

He heard a high, wild scream from the marsh, followed by a loud splash.


	36. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

* * *

Castiel sat up at the scream, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he looked around their small camp, the last of the light fading from the marsh pool.

"What happened?"

Dean felt Alis pull back against his arms, letting her go, barely able to see her move back to her bedroll. He sat up slowly, perversely glad of the deepening darkness, hiding his expression, and hers.

"Nothing, Cas. Just a näkki visit," he said quietly.

He closed his eyes. He could give up on any ideas of sleep now, he thought, the sense memories strong and insistent and lighting him up even as his body settled into a familiar throbbing ache he knew would last for a while.

"I told you not to look." Alis' voice came out of the darkness, low and throaty and shaken.

"Yeah." He acknowledged resignedly. She hadn't been wrong about the water spirit's ability to pick what the victim was least able to resist. Only the sight of his mom could have gotten him to cross the circle, to go willingly into the water. Even knowing that it wasn't real hadn't been enough to overcome the need to see her again.

"Dean? You sound strange."

He snorted softly at the understatement of the observation, lying down again, pulling the fur over him. "I'm okay, Cas."

He wasn't okay. He couldn't pick apart the tangle of emotions that were making his heart ache and his head pound, and with the angel and Alis lying there listening in the dark, he couldn't do anything about his physical discomfort either.

* * *

The day had dawned grey and cold, the strong briny smell of the sea competing with the equally strong scent of pickled herring, blowing over Sam from the aft quarter, where the sailors ate the fish straight from a small wooden barrel.

The seas were long, and not high, their foaming crests white against the shades of grey that seemed to fill every other corner of his vision. The wind had been steady for two days now, and he thought they were more than halfway to their destination, whatever that was. Two more of the Scythians had disappeared during the night, washed over the rail, Ásbjorn had told him in passing, although he had his suspicions that they'd been pushed overboard by the Norsemen, the unmistakable signs of decomposition too much for the sailors who were ruled by superstitions.

He dragged his thoughts back to the prophecy, brow furrowing as he forced himself through it again, trying to wring more information from it. Lucifer's rising would be presaged by a celestial event. The Sun brightening tenfold … solar flare? A very big one might be visible, the earth's magnetic fields would be disrupted … perhaps the northern lights would be affected. He chewed on his lip. There was no way he could be sure of what it meant. The second part was easier. A day without a night, a night without a day. An eclipse, solar rather than lunar. He wondered when it would be. If he could get a single glimpse of the night sky, he might be able to tell. Or at least make an educated guess.

Cesare wanted to use them for the living sacrifice. The prophecy had said three heavenly children, he was sure of that. They might all have angel blood in their veins, but they were a long way from being children. How could that work? What was wrong with the children he had already trapped and was using? Or were the Fates using them up too quickly? He swallowed, pushing away the images that rose in his imagination.

The mage had been talking to the Fates, or talking to someone at any rate. He knew just enough about the three of them to be able to figure out where the potential weaknesses in them lay. Sam grimaced as he remembered the last conversation with Cesare. He'd been too shocked at what the mage had been saying to hide his reactions, to temper his answers, and he'd given the sonofabitch even more information.

He leaned his back against the thick thwart behind him, memory and thought and feeling swamping him as he thought of the sorcerer's accusations. Would any of it have happened if he'd just killed Jake when he had the chance? No dying. No deal for Dean. No Hell, no broken seal, no broken brother, maybe no Ruby and demon blood and the invincibility he'd felt when it was fizzing through his veins and lighting up his brain.

The knowledge that the chain of events had been planned, orchestrated even, was no help to him. His choices had led him down the path they'd taken, his decisions, his thoughts and feelings driving him to ever worse outcomes. He'd been angry with Dean when his brother had told him about the deal. It had been a long time later when he'd realised that he could've prevented that decision, that deal. He ran a hand through his salt-stiffened hair and sighed.

It was easy to see the mistakes with hindsight. It hadn't been so clear when he'd been in the middle of it. He'd been a fish on a hook for most of his life, played expertly, allowed to run a little, drawn back in and maybe that absolved some of the blame that lay on him, and maybe it didn't. He had a chance now to set those things right, to wipe out that future that had destroyed his family and most of his friends and the innocent bystanders who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he could figure out how it was going to go down.

_A mortal man born of an angel and a demon who will be the doorway_. The wording bothered him, nagged at him. A doorway was not a vessel. A doorway was a doorway. What if … he thought of the mage's words about a living sacrifice again, he couldn't be a living sacrifice if he was Lucifer's meatsuit. And he couldn't be a living sacrifice if he were dead. What if in this rising, Lucifer didn't want him. What if he only needed him to come through? What if he weren't there? Could the angel come through anyone else? He didn't think so. Would the angel manifest in his own body, like the Watchers, if he could come through the doorway? A body that could be killed? As mortal as the rest of the fallen.

He looked up as Samyaza crouched beside him. The Watcher's eyes were clear, silver-grey and his own.

"You need to eat something, Sam." He glanced back to the sailors, his nose wrinkling slightly. "I realise that it does not smell the best, but you cannot go without food."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "If I eat that, it'll just go over the side to feed the fish, Samyaza."

"I believe that if you hold your nose and swallow fast you will not taste it." The Watcher's face was earnest. "It will be at least three more days at sea."

Sam smiled. "Do you think it matters to me if I die on the way?"

"It should. You cannot fight if you are dead."

He felt his eyes widen very slightly at the Watcher's words. "Lucifer cannot come through if I am, either."

"Don't believe that." The Watcher paused, feeling someone come up behind them.

Sam looked over his head, nodding to Ásbjorn as the Norseman stopped behind the Watcher. He watched a faint frown pass over his face as he looked down at Samyaza and wondered what he'd noticed.

"You need to eat, ørlendr. There is some salted beef as well, although the herring tastes better." Ásbjorn looked at him, humour glinting in the blue eyes. "I will bring it, you will eat."

It didn't sound like a question to Sam and he nodded. It would probably break his jaw to chew the stuff, but it wouldn't make him want to heave. He watched Ásbjorn turn away and looked back Samyaza.

"How do I know you're not lying to me? You have before."

"You don't." The Watcher stood, glancing over his shoulder. "You have to ask yourself what reason I would have for lying."

He turned away as Ásbjorn returned, carrying a deep bowl of dried jerky strips. The seaman passed Sam the bowl, and lifted his foot to the thwart, fiddling with the rawhide lacing that kept the fur pelts around his calves.

"That man has something in the back of his head," he said softly. "Something that should not be there, I think."

Sam lifted a piece of jerky from the bowl, biting into it then tucking it into his cheek as he looked forward up the ship. "What does it look like?"

"A bead of stone, a bright stone, a jewel."

The device that Araquiel and Gadriel had told Castiel of. He looked back Ásbjorn, raising the bowl.

"Thank you."

"Eat." The Norseman turned and looked behind them, along the eastern horizon where a thin black line showed above the waves. "We might make the island before that reaches us, but I would not count on it."

* * *

Elbek, Geny and Torgva leaned on the wall at the top of the watchtower. The valley had been quiet for two days, the demon bodies drained of blood to make more blood metal, then incinerated, the thick black smoke rising into the still air and finally dissipating when the northern wind began to blow down the valley, icy cold and filled with the scent of coming snow.

"You know how to use the machine. The blood metal spears will kill the Scythians and the demons inside of them."

Elbek glanced at Geny and nodded. "Is Kirill staying with the cat-a-pull?" he said the foreign word slowly and carefully.

"Yes. For another three days he and Lev will stay, in case the army of Armaros regains its courage and returns." Torgva sighed. They had only two of the bombs left anyway. "After that they'll leave. The other army will not be standing around doing nothing. If they are clearing the rockfall in the southern pass, we will need it to defend the southern villages. The scouts will return to Deep Ice in a few days' time. We will know more then, I hope."

"When are you leaving?" Geny looked at the blacksmith.

"Tonight. After Vasiliĭ is …," Torgva stopped, looking down at his hands as they rested on the stone wall, waiting for the thickness in his throat to ease, "… is sent to the gods."

* * *

The single pyre burned furiously in the strong wind, flaming against the darkness of the surrounding mountains. Torgva watched the fire, his heart aching for the passing of his friend. Like his father, he had died too young.

The field was filled with people, the villagers of Black River, and the warriors brought from the south, watching the fire burn in silence. In normal times, the death of a leader like Vasiliĭ would have been more elaborate. All the leaders of the villages along the long valley would have been there. War took more than life, when it came. It took the very traditions that helped ease grief and sorrow, it took the promise of the future and the memories of the past and gave no one the time needed to make sense of the changes.

The logs fell in on themselves, sending a shower of sparks up into the night and Torgva straightened, turning away from the fire, and the village, the two hundred warriors who were leaving with him, following him across the river to the camp.

* * *

Ruane was standing on the palisade wall, waiting for them when they came down the long curving road toward the village. Beside her, she heard Valenis' long exhale. The gates were open, and several cooking fires had been lit outside of the walls, to feed the men and women who would not be staying, but continuing their journey south to get back to their own villages.

Torgva rode in through the gates, followed by the warriors and hunters of Deep Ice. He dismounted in the crowded square, his eyes searching through the mass of people for one. Valenis smiled as she walked between two horses, and he released the breath he'd held as he enfolded her in his arms, feeling her strength pour into him, and the deep sense of contentment he felt when she was near to him. She knew the pain he was feeling, would be able to offer comfort as no other could, and he would finally be able to sleep again, with her lying against his side.

Ruane came up hesitantly behind the healer. Torgva looked at her, and straightened slowly.

"He died quickly, Ruane. Bravely," he said quietly, and she nodded, her eyes bright with tears that she did not let fall.

"Is the northern army defeated, Torgva?"

"No. Chased off for the moment. Not defeated." He glanced down at Valenis. "There are thousands of them, Ruane. They will come back, until they have found what they are looking for, or have wiped us out."

"Will the people of Black River be able to withstand them?"

"I think so. The demons couldn't breach the walls. They have more warriors there now, enough to move the stores into the keep and be able to keep up their defences."

"Good." She looked away, at the men and women who filled the square, stripping their armour and settling their horses. "The scouts have not returned from the south yet."

"A day or two more, I think." Valenis looked at the young woman gently. "It is several days to Stone Well and they must be very careful beyond that."

Ruane nodded, taking the blacksmith's hands in her own. "It is good to have you home, Torgva."

"It is good to be home, Ruane." He gestured to the carts now trundling in through the gates. "We have a lot of demon blood. I will be making swords, arrowheads, spears for the ballista, Lev has an idea for a bomb that does not need the explosive powder."

"Good. The more ways we have of killing these demons, the more quickly we can rid our world of them." She turned away from them, heading for the keep, threading her way through the people and horses.

Torgva looked at his wife. "She has changed."

Valenis watched Ruane disappear up the path. "Yes."

* * *

The eastern horizon had darkened very quickly, and Alis watched it carefully, pushing them to move faster as they cleared the outer edge of the marshes and came into the low rolling hills, wide plains and winding streams to the north.

"What's wrong?" Castiel came up beside her, following her gaze as she looked to the east again.

"I'm not sure, Castiel." She looked around them, the gently rolling countryside showing little cover in any direction. "We have to find some cover, something to protect us."

"Why?"

"My mother told me about a wind, a wind that brings ice and death, a wind that comes from the north east." She shook her head. "She called it the _poorga_."

Castiel's head snapped around. "From Siberia? Sabirs?"

"Yes."

"I have heard of this wind. You're right, we need to find cover." He looked back at Dean. "We have to move fast."

Dean watched them push their horses into a canter, then a gallop and closed his legs on his mare's sides, feeling her stretch out to catch up to the others. _What was going on now?_

They kept heading north, driving the horses on until they began to slow, letting them to a walk or stop briefly to graze and regain their wind, then pushing on again. The forests were spaced out, there were no settlements on the open plains, and Alis had started to think of how they could build a shelter that would be strong enough and safe enough to keep them alive if they were trapped out here.

"Why are we running?" Dean looked at Castiel, as they stopped again.

Castiel pointed to the eastern horizon where the darkness had thickened and was visibly moving closer. "The _poorga_ is a wind that comes out of Siberia. It is ferocious and dangerous in our time, but in this time, the Siberian high is much bigger, edging well past Russia and across Poland, even stretching as far as west as Germany or sometimes Belgium. The high draws down extreme cold, from the stratosphere, sometimes higher, the cold of space, Dean. In winter, most of the time the high is stable. That depends on other things but in this time, the high is not always stable, the forces that affect it are not stable."

Dean stared at him. "So another snowstorm? Like the _buran_?"

Alis led her horse back to them, and for a moment he saw the fear stark in her eyes. "Much worse than the _buran_. Much worse. That was a winter storm." She lifted the reins over her mare's head, swinging back into the saddle. "To be outside in this storm is to die."

Castiel mounted, waiting for Dean. "In our time, your time, you heard the discovery of a mammoth, found snap frozen with the grass still in their mouths?"

Dean frowned. He had a vague memory of hearing that at some time. Possibly at school. "Maybe."

"Those mammoth were killed by a storm like this. Frozen solid as they ate."

The angel's words sank into him. "If we can't find shelter?"

"We'll try to make a shelter. Or we'll die."

They rode up over the crest of the hill, eyes frantically searching the valley before them for anything that would keep them safe. Alis looked along the valley where the hillside gentled out, thinking that it would be the place to start digging. She felt her chest hitch up with a half-sob as she started down the long slope.

Castiel followed her, staring at the ground. The soil was hard here on the hill, the vegetation stunted and scrubby. He had the feeling that the ground would be well-frozen for at least a dozen feet. He wasn't sure how they would be able to dig into it.

Dean turned to look back, feeling the icy outriders of the storm that pursued them, and was catching up, cut through the thick fur around him. He looked back to the valley, pushing the mare slowly down the slope, letting his gaze drift over the landscape, looking for differences, looking for anything that broke the pattern of the vegetation, the rock, the soils, the way the streams meandered along the bottom of the valley. The urgency of their situation beat against him, and he pushed it aside, not seeing Alis and Castiel trotting down ahead of him, just looking for any break in the broad valley floor.

He saw it as he reached the halfway point, his eyes suddenly narrowing at the different colouration of the thin trees and shrubs less than a mile away.

"Cas, Alis, over there." He cantered down after them, accelerating as they turned to look. On the valley floor it was difficult to see the subtle difference between the trees that were shallow-rooted due to the permafrost, and those that couldn't push their roots deep due to the blocks of stone that lay under the thin topsoil. He kept his gaze fixed on what he'd seen, felt the mare gather herself and jump the stream along the path, heard the hollow thunder of the other two horses' hooves behind him.

As they got close, the ruins became visible and obvious. The town or settlement had once been quite substantial, built of the grey and rose stone that broke through the thin soils of the region, the masonry accurate and smooth, if not elaborate. Castiel looked around as they rode between the fallen buildings, wondering what had destroyed it.

Alis pulled up in what might have been a square, once, sliding off her horse and stringing her bow. She looked up at Dean.

"Can you shoot?"

He nodded, dismounting and bracing the recurve bow against his hip as he slipped the string over the notched end. They gave the reins to Castiel and moved fast through the buildings. Stone wasn't enough, Alis thought feverishly. They needed to be deep, under the ground. The last building on the corner of the square had what she was looking for. Inside the still-standing corner between two walls, was a square of black, the wide, shallow steps leading down into the darkness.

"Here." She grabbed a dried and dead branch from the stunted and twisted tree near the wall, snapping it off at the fork and Dean pulled out the flint and steel he carried everywhere now, lighting the end. The simple torch was already fluttering with the gradually increasing wind, and they hurried down the steps.

The basement of the building had been built nearly thirty feet under the ground, a wide, rectangular room, with several walls helping to hold the foundations of the building above it. Moving through to the last one, Alis nodded.

"This will be enough, I think. If we can keep it warm, a big fire, the wind cannot reach in here."

She left the torch burning against the wall, and followed him up the stairs.

* * *

The seas were mountainous now, the longship slowing as it struggled up the high sides of each one, and surfed down the long slope following, the cantilever point as the vessel teetered on the crests, only to be pushed forward again by the wind, making even the Norsemen pale.

Overhead, dark clouds scudded past them, ripped into shreds by the icy wind that was blowing from the south east. Sam looked at the faces of the seamen, seeing their terror, locked down, as they moved around the ship, checking the rigging, easing the sail when they could, or hauling it in tighter when an extra knot of speed meant the difference between making it over the wave or rolling off the side and plunging into the trough.

Ásbjorn was on the tiller, his long hair lifted and tossed, bright as a flame against the darkness of sea and sky, the huge muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing constantly as he wrestled with the sea for the control of the boat. The sail was still fully set, the yard and mast moaning loudly with the stresses on the timber, the rigging thrumming like piano strings as the wind pushed hard against the sail. Sam looked at the crude ringbolts that held the rigging to the hull, watching them work in the holes, rattling when the sail eased momentarily, slamming against the timber when the wind filled it again. Could the ship take this punishment? And if so, for how long?

Samyaza sat next to him, braced between the thwarts, his face smooth and hard as he watched the crew, watched the storm catching up to them. He'd told Sam about it, an ice storm, unheard of in this sea, a storm in which the wind and the cold would rip them to pieces if they couldn't outrun it.

Another Scythian had been lost, catapulting over the bulwarks when the first gust had hit and the ship had spun on her long axis, sending the men crashing to the deck, into the hull. Two of the crew were lying on the deckboards, one with a broken leg, as he'd been thrown against the thwart, the other with broken ribs from the impact with the rail. Sam had felt the boat drop off the crest and had been lucky that he'd braced himself the right way, the force of the hull hitting the trough below them and spinning around had shaken his teeth and knocked the wind from his lungs.

Ásbjorn screamed his orders against the rising wail of the wind and the crew obeyed instantly, dragging the long yard arm to one side as the red-haired man had lashed the heavy rudder to the other side, the ice in the wind already taking their breath, burning in their lungs, and Sam saw the crackle of white appearing along the horizontal surfaces of the ship, the frost forming as he watched. He was surrounded by the men a moment later, as they pushed into the narrow wooden frame between the mast and the thwarts and the thick pinrails in between. From the mast chest, the spare sail came out and was thrown over them, the heavily waxed cloth that Ásbjorn had given him was pulled down over the sail and tied off to the exposed ribs along the hull, until they were in darkness, bodies pressed close together and furs and clothing, wet and dry, covering every inch of skin possible. Ásbjorn was the last in, drawing in the coverings tightly behind him, the incredibly thick and heavy polar bear pelt he wore spread out over himself and those around him.

Through the ragged breathing of the men huddled together, Sam heard the voice of the wind suddenly rise, shrieking through the rigging and around the mast, and felt the cold drop over them, piercing the cloth and the furs and sucking the heat from their bodies. The ship had lifted and for a second the sound of the sea along the hull vanished, then they fell, ten feet, twenty, thirty feet and hit the trough, water forced through the planking of the hull, the timbers cracking like pistol shots, and over that, the explosion as the sail burst, the woven cloth unable to take the pressure against it.

The men were thrown against each other, fingers closing tight on whatever was closest to them, crowding close as the longship rolled drunkenly at the bottom of the wave and was slowly lifted again, the following sea roaring under them as they raced down the long slope, slewing from one side to another, the tied rudder taking them across the slope of the wave instead of straight up and straight down.

Water sloshed underneath them, slow leaks from the cracked planks in the hull, more thrown over the bow and stern as the ship surged over the rolling waves, driven fast before the wind against her bare pole, even the wild flapping of the shreds of the sail gone. In the darkness and the cold, Sam felt their fear as clearly as he felt his own, the muttered prayers to the to the Sækonungar, gods of the sea, of the winds and storms and sky, for their deliverance, no different from the prayers in his heart to whatever had lifted him and Dean from a convent in Maryland as Lucifer had risen, to come to his aid again.

Even mortal fear cannot be sustained indefinitely. As the hours went by, and the ship continued to surf and skate and skitter over the seas, neither broaching nor sinking nor breaking into a thousand pieces, the minds and bodies of the men began to shut down, exhausted by emotion, by effort, by cold.

* * *

The man walked up the frozen track, a dark staff in his hand, his cowled and hooded cloak drawn closely around his face, leaving it in shadow. His boots left tracks over the white hoar, and the dim grey light of the approaching dawn cast his shadow pale and long across the slope beside him. Only a short way ahead, the double palisade wall of the village followed the curve of the road, and he saw the guards positioned at intervals along its length, heard their calls as they saw him come along the road.

He stopped by the closed and barred gates, looking up at the narrow gatehouse that sat slightly out from the wall.

"Show your face, traveller."

A dozen arrows lifted as the man raised his hand, pushing the hood back from his face, revealing long dark hair, a strong tanned face, with dark winged brows and blue eyes, as bright as the desert sky.

"What is your business here?" The guard looked down, frowning slightly in partial recognition.

"I have come to offer my services to the village of Deep Ice and its leader."

He watched the men turning, looking behind them as someone else came up to the rampart, pushing past the archers to lean over the wall.

"Penemue?" Ruane looked down at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and relief.

"In the flesh." The Watcher glanced at the gates to his right. "I've been walking for a month. Is there any chance I could come in and we could have this discussion in front of a fire with something to eat?"

"Open the gates." She called to the gatekeepers, turning and racing down the ladder to the square.

The Watcher walked in through the narrow gap opened for him, and looked down at the young woman in front of him, lips compressing slightly as he took in the changes in her since he'd seen her last.

"Is Cas around?"

She shook her head. "A lot has happened since we left you. Come, there's a fire in the hall and food and tea."

He followed her up the half paved path to the keep, using his staff to keep his footing over the glazed ice that coated the slick mud.

Ruane glanced back at him. "Are you staying?"

The Watcher nodded. "For as long as I'm needed."


	37. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

* * *

Sam woke abruptly, feeling an elbow pressed hard against his ribs, almost gagging on the smells that surrounded him, fish and salt and the ripe odours of unwashed clothing, the smell of decay and of wet fur and wet leather. He struggled upwards, the chains attached to his wrists clanking and dragging over the man beside him, the others stirring now, opening their eyes in the dimness beneath the sails and covers.

He couldn't hear anything from outside of their tight shelter. No waves, no wind, not a sound to indicate that they were still afloat, still at sea.

When the covers were pulled free, and the men had untangled themselves from the deck boards and snarled lines and from each other, he sat up, dragging in a deep lungful of the icy, burning air, staring around.

The boat sat limply on the glassy surface of the sea. There was not a ripple, not the smallest rill on the water to break the reflection of the billions of stars above them, sea and sky midnight blue and the feeling of floating in space, like a ship in a long-ago lost legend, catching and holding his breath. On every surface, ice shone in the starlight, coating and glazing the spars and cloth, ropes and thwarts, the salt water in the shallow bilges frozen solid against the timbers. To the east, he could see the edge of the sea, and the start of the pack ice.

Ásbjorn stood beside him, staring at the ice that had spread across the horizon, palely luminescent in the dim light. "I have never seen ice in this sea. Not here, away from land."

Sam looked around the ship. "Can everything here be repaired?"

The Norseman turned slowly, looking at the snapped tiller, the burst sail. The mast was still upright, but half of the rigging had given way, the bolts pulled out or the rope snapped.

"Yes. We can repair this." He drew the thick white fur cloak around himself tightly. The bitter chill of the storm remained in the still air.

Samyaza rolled to his knees, pulling the wet cloak around himself. "Your ship survived the storm well, Ásbjorn."

The Norseman turned to look at him. "We were very lucky, ørlendr. The storm just brushed us with its hem, it didn't cross over us." He gestured to the land, south east of them. "The full fury was spent there."

Sam's gaze followed the gesture. Somewhere there, Dean and Castiel were struggling to reach him. Had the storm killed them? He remembered the sound of the wind, the brutal force of it pushing the ship into the steep seas. If that had been a brush, what had it been like in the centre of that ferocious maw?

He felt Samyaza's eyes on him, sensed that they would be reddened. As his knowledge grew about the mage, Cesare's knowledge of him was also growing. He didn't look at the Watcher, turning away to help the men, as they began to clean the ship of debris and ice.

* * *

Alis and Castiel gathered wood, as Dean led the three horses down the steps and into the basement. He tied them to the far corner of the room, away from the doorway where they would light the fire, set their bedrolls. Pulling the saddles and gear from their backs, he ran his hand through the thick furry hide, lifting then smoothing the hair back. It wasn't much of a rub-down for all their efforts, but it was all he had time for. It was dry in the room, cold but not damp, the walls lined with cut blocks of stone.

He passed Castiel on the way down with a load of wood, and ran the rest of the way up. Alis staggered under the load she carried, unable to see the steps, feeling her way with her feet. Dean hesitated at the top of the stairs, watching her move down slowly, then turned away. The horses needed fodder if the storm lasted more than a day.

Behind the shallow rise they'd come down, the sky was black. He cut armfuls of dried grass, the twiggy evergreen branches of the shrubs he'd seen the animals browsing on when there was nothing else, dry and half-frozen reeds, bundling the mix into stooks as the cold penetrated the valley and the sun disappeared entirely.

Wood was plentiful around the ruins, dead and dried trees, stunted and twisted, filled the spaces between the great stone blocks and fell over the walls still standing. Alis and Castiel raced up and down the stairs, dragging what they could down to the basement, both with half their attention fixed on the sky, on the wind. When Dean came up the second time, he felt the harsh peppering of fine snow against his skin, and realised that they were out of time.

The storm dropped over them with a shocking suddenness, the air filled with snow and the wind along the long front clawing and biting through their clothing, as the temperature simply dropped without warning. Alis was halfway back up the steps when Dean came barrelling down them, shaking his head, the skin of his face pinched and white around his eyes, reddened over his cheekbones. She turned and ran with him down to the bottom, the air burning in their lungs as they twisted and turned around the maze-like walls, following the leap of shadows and the bright yellow flames of the fire Castiel had lit. The cold pursued them down, the wind howling around the walls at the top of the stairs, and they stopped beside the angel, all three frantically throwing branches and sticks onto the fire as the warmth was bled out of the air, even next to the flames.

_Cold from space_, Dean thought, dragging the fur bedroll around his shoulders, shivering uncontrollably, his body's heat withdrawing from his limbs.

"No, make a single roll, we need to share." Castiel looked over his shoulder at them, spreading out the bison hide shelter beside the saddles and bedrolls. "We build up the fire and get under the hide."

Alis looked at the horses, who stood, tails tucked tightly against rumps, huddled close together in the corner of the room. She pulled a heavy blanket, woven of goat hair, from her saddle, throwing it over the three of them.

They moved slowly, their blood sluggish with the deepening cold, the heat of the fire seeming almost illusory. Alis dragged their bedrolls together over half of the thick bison hair of the shelter hide, layering the furs to make a single pile, her fingers blue and stiffening. She pulled her mittens from her belt and dragged them on, taking off her cloak to add to the pile, and wriggling quickly into the centre as Castiel and Dean crawled under next to her, the angel sitting up and dragging the flap of the hide shelter over the top of them. The opening between the two halves of the folded shelter faced the fire, but none of them could feel its warmth, or hear the crackle and rush of the flames through the wood over the rising shriek of the storm above.

Lying in the close confines under the hide, it seemed to take a long time before Dean felt a little more warmth in his body, moving his fingers slightly, aware that he could once again feel the fur against them, that his toes registered the soft, springy wool surrounding them in his boots. The flicker of the firelight was dim under the hide, his cloak pulled over his head and around his face cutting the light further, but he could make out the strands of curly bison hair above him, and he realised that he couldn't see his breath anymore, their combined heat under the layers of coverings warming the small space enough to begin to counteract the cold.

"How cold is it out there, Cas?" His voice was rough, hoarse and low, and he swallowed to get some moisture into his throat.

"I don't know." Castiel whispered. "Cold."

He mouth twisted derisively at the angel's curt answer. "You getting warmer?"

"A little."

"Me too."

"We'll probably survive." Castiel said dryly. "Try and sleep, Dean. There's nothing else we can do until the storm has gone."

He nodded, shifting under the furs, closing his eyes. He felt tired, partly the adrenalin hangover, he thought, and partly the cold. He'd been careful all day not to think about what had happened in the marshes, careful not to look at what he'd felt, seeing her there, but not looking at it didn't make it go away. Something had happened, when his father had exchanged his life for his son's. Something had changed in him. Something more than the agony of guilt at the unasked for sacrifice. While his father had still been alive, he'd felt the grief of his mother's death, but there hadn't been a sense that if she had just lived, everything would have been alright. Once his father had gone, it seemed like his only longing was to have his family back. All of them. But especially his mother. He didn't know why that was, not really.

She'd been the last person he'd let himself be vulnerable with. Even with his father, he'd had to be as strong as he could be. He couldn't … he wouldn't let his fear show. Couldn't let his father see that … sometimes … he didn't feel strong enough, that sometimes the burden was too much. He chewed on the edge of his lip, slipping back into the past. His job had been simple. Watch his father's back. Look after Sam. Mediate between them when it seemed like they might rip each other to pieces. Keep them all together.

No one had told him that they loved him since she'd died.

He'd spent his life pushing people away, keeping his distance, instinctively trying to stop himself from making any connections that would hurt him further down the line. Their life had been like that, moving constantly, unable to tell people what they did, most of the time not even staying in a place long enough to get to know anyone. It hadn't bothered him, particularly, until Ohio. And he'd really learned his lesson then. For a couple of years after that, he'd been … kind of crippled, he thought, a lot of his anger, his pain, projected outward, and a lot of time spent denying what he'd felt, what he'd wanted.

Eventually he'd had to let that understanding in. He'd tried to make it all about Sam, protecting his little brother and kidding himself that it was enough, one night stands, names and faces forgotten before he'd even gotten out the door. You can kid yourself for a long time, he'd found, but not forever.

He exhaled softly. Seeing Lisa again, seeing her son, that had been the thing that had forced him into realising the truth. He'd looked at that, and had turned from it deliberately, because he'd made a deal and there was no way he was bringing that down on them. And it had been a hard thing to do, relinquishing his hope, turning away from her invitation and walking out of her door, getting in the car and driving away.

After Hell …, well, everything had changed after Hell. He couldn't look in a mirror, couldn't look into people's eyes, couldn't deal with what he'd done, couldn't imagine ever being whole again. It had taken a long time and a lot of drinking to bury those memories, to wall them up and get to a point where he could function. And the nightmares were still coming, creeping through the cracks when he was defenceless in sleep. In them, he saw himself clearly, shattered, filled with darkness, outcast, unclean, unworthy.

He couldn't explain it to his brother. Couldn't explain it to anyone. And Sam, Sam had his own secrets by then.

_It's already gone too far, Sam. If I didn't know you … I would want to hunt you._

Family. Trust. Love. All the things he'd clung to, all gone. Maybe it wasn't so surprising that he'd wanted to walk out of the circle, be with someone he trusted, someone who loved him.

He felt Alis shift against him, the fur cloak whispering as it slid down. He lifted the edge, pulling it over them both, her back against his chest.

He didn't know what he felt about her, either. She was a mass of contradictions. Aggravating, competent, prickly, straightforward, some of the time at least. He'd trained with her and had admired her speed, the economy of her action, the way she'd turned the disadvantages of her smaller frame into advantage against him, even against Sam when he'd watch her spar with his brother. He knew the gentleness in her, the depths of her compassion, reluctantly revealed in those first couple of weeks when he'd been in her care. He'd been surprised by it, even after Sam had told him about the reasons for it. He'd thought she'd be harder. He remembered the flashes of jealousy, watching her with Lev. He had no idea where they'd come from. They'd barely been speaking then, he'd had no reason to feel anything at the sight of her in someone else's arms.

She'd wanted him, as much as he wanted her, that kiss might have been to break the spell the näkki had cast over him to begin with, but the passion in it had been real. He felt himself stir at the memory of how it had felt. If Cas hadn't spoken, hadn't _interrupted_, would that have gone further? He didn't know. He did know that when she'd pulled away, she'd been afraid, he'd seen that much in her face. But he couldn't think of a reason for it.

He'd never worked this frigging hard with a woman before. At the first sign of irritation, he was usually out of there. Not that he could do that here, but he realised slowly that he didn't really want to do that. He wanted to know her, know why she did what she did, what she was thinking of when her face got still and her eyes became distant. He didn't know how to ask that, had no experience in getting to know someone. And, he thought, it was just easier to keep things impersonal, limit their interactions to the details of travelling, limit his thoughts to finding Sam, stopping the devil.

* * *

Ruane, Valenis, Torgva and Penemue sat in the hall, close by the fire. The scouts had returned from the south. Kokabiel's army were clearing the pass, and it would be open in a matter of days.

"With the pass open, we cannot hold the army back." Torgva looked at Ruane. She nodded.

"Will the defences of the villages hold?"

"Yes, the walls will hold. They will not be able to fight back." Torgva glanced at Valenis.

"Fields can be replanted, Torgva, homes rebuilt." Ruane looked past him to the fire. "If the people can be kept safe, then we can think of a future."

She turned to Valenis. "Have you seen Sam? In the water?"

Valenis sighed and nodded. "He is on a ship in the northern sea. They were brushed by a storm, an ice storm, I think." The images had been strange. She'd never seen the sea of the north look like that. "But he is alive, and the Watcher. They will be delayed in reaching the sorcerer, I think."

"Is it enough time for Dean and Castiel and Alis to reach him?"

Valenis shook her head. "No. A few days, that is all."

"Where are the others?"

"The storm passed over where I last saw them, I haven't seen them in the water since." She had been looking, calling their images in the water and in the fire, but there had been nothing for a full day now.

She felt Torgva's hand tighten on hers. "I think I would feel it if they were dead. And perhaps they found somewhere deep, somewhere the sight cannot penetrate."

Ruane nodded. "Elbek sent word that the army of Armârôs has returned to Black River. They have enough warriors to keep them off the village. Not enough to stop them from marching south."

"We are being pressed between them." Torgva said heavily. "I do not think they will just march past us."

Penemue shook his head. "No, they will attempt to burn the villages out, even if they cannot get in."

"There are too many to fight. Even with the blood metal, even with Kirill's machines."

The Watcher nodded. "I did have a thought about that." He looked at Valenis. "Have you seen where Armârôs' army is now?"

"They have passed Lightning Tree. They are a day from here." Valenis looked at him, feeling a thread of hope rising at his expression.

"Along the road, is there anywhere that is very narrow? That the horses might have to pass no more than two abreast?"

Ruane leaned forward, looking at the glint of humour far back in the Watcher's eyes. "There is one place, next to the river. The incline is steep and the river is very fast there, the road narrows so only a small wagon can pass along it at that point."

"That will do." He looked from her to Torgva and Valenis. "I don't think I've told you about holy oil?"

* * *

Elbek sat on the rampart, his back against the wall. Beside him, Geny and Sergei rested. They had been on the wall since the drums were first heard at the head of the valley, the blood metal arrows flying as the army marched past them, the throwing machine of Kirill firing the heavy iron spears into the ranks. The demons had returned fire but hadn't stopped, crossing the river and moving south.

"You think they will just go past us and leave us alone?" Sergei said finally, turning to look at Elbek.

"No. Vasiliĭ said that they were looking for someone, someone they want to kill. I think they will kill everyone before they leave the valley."

"They cannot get in here. The walls are too strong." Geny looked warily at the younger man.

"They can stay until we run out of food, until the valley and the forests are barren with their gleaning." Elbek turned his head to the leader. "They can surround us and send fire against our building until the walls we sit on have burned to the ground, even if they can't cross the remains. It is just a matter of time."

"How many have come through?" Sergei asked.

"Over a thousand, I think, have crossed the river." Elbek said tiredly.

"We still have two of Dean's explosives."

"And nothing to throw them with. And it wouldn't stop them, not from coming through."

"If we could close the Throat, that would stop them, Elbek." Sergei's face was covered in grime, but his eyes were bright. Elbek turned very slowly to look at him.

"We would have to leave now."

"Yes."

Geny looked from one man to the other. "How can you get past the Scythians?"

"Go on foot, over the peak, and along the ridge." Elbek turned to look at the arête behind the village. It was impossible to traverse on horse, but on foot they could follow it all the way to the Throat.

"Do we have enough fuse?"

"We won't need much. Not for this." Elbek straightened against the wall, thinking. "We cannot set the casings into the rock, they'll see us. We will light the fuses and throw them in. The defile is very narrow. There are fractures in the stone already."

"You'll die." Geny looked at him flatly. "If the rock comes down onto them you will not have enough time to get clear."

Elbek smiled slowly. "Then we'll die, Geny, but the rest of the army will not be able to come through. They will have to go around."

He looked at Sergei, his teeth flashing white in the gloom of the twilight shadows. "Get the fuse. I'll get the casings."

* * *

Sam glanced along the length of the ship, watching the Norsemen as they lowered the yard and unlaced the few remaining shreds of the sail, his hands working automatically on the splice in the end of the rope he held. Every block had been destroyed when the sail had gone, and much of the cordage on the vessel had been snapped under the strain. They'd been lucky that the yard hadn't fallen, the smoothed log spar would have crushed them easily, or damaged the hull beyond their ability to repair it out here.

The last Scythian had died in the night, along with two of the Norsemen. They'd been on the outside of the group and the cold had killed them. The bodies had been wrapped and lowered into the sea, wrapped in chain to take them down as the boat wasn't moving at all.

Everything else was thawing very slowly in the thin sunshine. The air was still cold, but it was warming very gradually and the ice dripped from the surfaces, plinking softly into the water in the bottom of the boat. Sam wondered how long they would wallow here, without wind. The damage to the planks of the hull was unknown yet, the ice still sealing the boat. Ásbjorn had looked at them carefully and had turned away, his face grim. It was possible that the flex and pressure of the mast and sail would work those cracks wider, when the ice melted and enough wind rose to set the sail. They would have to trust to luck that they didn't.

"There is no such force as luck in this world, Sam."

His head snapped around, meeting the red-lit eyes of Samyaza, sitting beside him, mouth stretched out in a facsimile of a friendly smile.

"You should know that by now. There is destiny and the powers of those above us and those who live below, but nothing is random, nothing is a coincidence."

Sam looked down at the rope in his hands, unable to argue that. He wondered if chance had ever, or would ever play a part in the world, now or in the future. Perhaps it was idea of chance, of a random universe, that was the myth, not the forces that humankind had written off as superstition for the last two hundred years.

"You are the doorway, Sam. The dark Lord would never let you be killed and lost in something as easily controlled as a storm."

"Are you sure about that, Cesare?" Sam looked into the reddened irises. "Lucifer's reach is not so great from inside the Cage. He can whisper and feed you the lies you want to hear, but to reach out and control the elements? Don't you think he'd have done a lot more of that if he were capable?"

"My Lord says that you know nothing of him, Sam. He says that you are the one who is lying to me."

Sam smiled, involuntarily. "What else is he going to say? That he doesn't know what the hell is going on?"

He turned slightly, facing the Watcher. "I'm the one from the future, Cesare. I'm the one who has read the histories and spoken to the angels and fought the devil."

The Watcher looked away, brows drawing together.

"Abaddon, Apollyon, the Deceiver, Most Unclean, the Dragon, Little Horn, the Prince of the Power of Air, the Beast, Shaitan, the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, the Morning Star, Beelzebub, the Father of Lies, the Lightbringer, Satan, the Son of Perdition … Lucifer, fallen from Grace, cast down by the archangel Michael, and decreed by God to remain in the Cage at the lowermost level of Hell for a thousand years," Sam said softly, staring at the Watcher's profile.

"Don't be fooled by his lies and his truths and his half-truths, Cesare. He has many names but they're all him. And he was cast down from Heaven because of his disobedience, because of his hatred for humankind, for leading a rebellion of angels against Heaven to wipe men from the face of the Earth."

He watched Samyaza's face, twisted by another's expressions as the words sank in. He wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. If Lucifer didn't rise now, in this world, at this time, through the machinations of the mage, then they would have to go back to 2010 and face him there. Would it be easier here? As a doorway, rather than a vessel? He had no intention of saying yes to the angel, but would he be able to hold out, if they went back, when they got down to the wire?

It depended on what the angel needed, he thought. He had no real idea of what being a doorway meant, in real terms. He had no idea how the angel would manifest once he was through. Or what his strengths and weaknesses would be. Would he wield the same powers that he had in the future? Unknown.

"When Lucifer comes through, will he take a body, a vessel?" he asked quietly, not sure if he'd get an answer.

Samyaza looked at him, the red in his eyes flaring. "You are the doorway, Sam. What happens after he passes through you is nothing that you need concern yourself with. He will come through."

The Watcher slumped sideways, sliding from the thwart to the deck, before Sam could reach for him. He looked down at the crumpled form, kneeling awkwardly at the end of the length of his chains. He was pushing the mage's buttons alright, he thought. Cesare was struggling to hold on to his dreams of power, in the face of a lot of unpalatable truths about the lord he was serving. There had to be a way to get more information out of him, before they got there, before it was too late.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes, memory rushing back as they focussed on the faint light that outlined the strands of bison hair in front of his nose.

The storm. The basement. The cold.

He looked down. Alis lay against him, his arms curved around her, her breathing slow and steady, in the pattern of sleep. His mouth quirked very slightly to one side.

He lifted his head a little, looking over the fur that covered them, to the fire beyond. Flames still flickered but it could definitely use more wood, he thought, as he felt the icy touch of the air against his face where the covering had slipped at his movement. He eased his arm from under Alis, and inched his way down under the piles of furs, moving reluctantly away from the warmth of her body, from the warmth of the hollow his own had created in the thick bedroll. Feeling around near their feet, his hand closed over the pieces of wood, and he looked from under the cover of the hide, tossing several more pieces on top of the fire, and worked his way back up.

He saw Alis' eyes open slightly as he found that warm hollow again.

"Could you hear the wind?" she asked very quietly. He nodded, looking past her to the dark hair that was all he could see of the angel. The storm was still raging over them.

"Is Cas asleep?"

She turned her head, shifting away from him, closer to the angel. "Yes."

"Are you warm enough?"

She nodded, the movement barely discernible under the fur. He looked at the side of her face, the light just touched the line of her brow, made a small pale triangle on the point of her cheek, he could see the shadow of her lashes lying against it.

He wanted to ask her about the näkki, but he wasn't sure how to start. She turned her head toward him incrementally, the light shifting over her face.

"The näkki …," he hesitated for a moment, looking for the words. "I knew it was a trick, knew it was a monster, I still wanted to believe in it."

He saw the slight nod again, the triangle of light returning to her cheek. "My mother told me about being trapped by a djinn, when she was in the southern deserts. It … poisoned her somehow, I don't remember how. She said she was in a dream, a dream where her man and child still lived."

He drew in a deep breath, curling up a little.

"She told me that even though she knew it couldn't be true, that the terrible pain in her heart was the truth, not the dream, she didn't want to leave it. She didn't want the truth, she wanted the dream." Alis paused for a moment, remembering her mother's face when she'd said that. Valenis had looked … torn, even then, as retelling a story more than twelve years after it had happened, the desire to live in the dream still persisted. "The näkki do that too, in a way. They see … sometimes not what you want, but what you need, and they offer it to you, knowing that your mind will do the rest, will convince you of the realness of it, even when you know that it is not real. It can be very hard to resist the dream when it is all that you truly desire."

She heard his exhale, fast and hard against the fur.

He closed his eyes. Was it all he wanted? For things to go back, to have never have happened? It wasn't possible so why yearn hopelessly for something that could never happen? Memories came to him, a cascading rush, filling his mind. The early mornings of the harvest, the dew cool and damp against his legs, leading the wagons over the fields, the hall at night, eating and talking, listening to the music played brightly and overlaid with the voices of the people, harmony and descant, interwoven into complex airs, discussing the preparation of a hunt with Elbek and Sam and Alis, the weapons they would need, the terrain they would cover, sitting by the fire with Vasilii and Torgva, talking through the defences of the village, a million ideas filling his mind for how to demon-proof the homes and walls, training with the hunters, learning how to fight with a sword, when to attack and when to fade out of reach, hours of shooting arrows in the warm dusk in the summer, the fletching bright against the purple sky as they rose and fell, punching into the targets, lying here, with the weight of the furs on them, his body moulded around hers, the peace in her breathing as she slept within the curve of his arms … what was wrong with wanting that? Sam could never go back to his old life, Jess was gone, their parents were gone, and his brother was in love again, if they survived the coming confrontation … he stopped that thought abruptly.

"I'm sorry for kissing you." Alis said into the silence. "I didn't want to hit you, and –"

He looked at her, his eyes focussing again. "Don't be sorry about that, I'm not."

He expected her turn away, to withdraw again, knowing that he'd probably pushed too hard. She didn't. She didn't look at him, or turn toward him, but she didn't move away.


	38. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

* * *

Elbek lay along the sharp stone gutter, above the narrow defile. Fifty feet below, the demon soldiers of the army of Armârôs moved slowly through the narrow cut in the rocks, one at a time, the hooves of their horses thudding on the thin soil over the rocky ground. At the other end of the long passage, Sergei lay still, waiting for Elbek's signal.

The climb along the west side of the arête north had been faster than he'd expected, the long, sharp ridge a much more direct route than the road. He looked down at the fuse he'd packed into the black powder. It was two foot long. He would have to light it, throw it over the edge, and then run because it would explode at about the time it hit the ground.

He took a breath and struck the curved iron firestriker against the flint, the sparks lighting the fuse instantly. He sat up, the casing held in one hand and threw it into the defile, rolling over and onto his knees, seeing Sergei's arm rise and fall at the other end of the narrow clifftop, rising and running as he was.

The blast, confined tightly in the space between the rock walls, was deafening. Elbek felt the rock under his feet trembling and frantically increased his speed, feeling the stone shifting, then rolling back, too fast for him to keep up with, to jump from, the dust cloud rising and covering everything in seconds.

* * *

The Scythian had just cleared the tunnel entrance when he saw it in the periphery of his vision, the round object flying through the air, bouncing from the rock walls and landing in the dirt, spurring his horse forward into a gallop as he recognised the device. The concussion wave pressed him forward, heated air spreading outward, faster than the horse could run. He pulled up in the trees as the dust cloud rolled over him, holding his hand over his mouth and nose.

He coughed and spat as he turned his horse back to look at the defile. Dust hung in the air, covering everything. Dimly, beyond the cloud, he could see the rock walls, but no gap between them. He looked up, the top of the ridge line no longer straight, but dipping slightly. He rode a little closer to the steep walls, listening. There was nothing, not from the defile where the men who'd been trapped inside were surely dead, crushed beneath the tons of rock from the blast, and nothing from beyond it.

He shook his head, wiping his mouth and eyes clear of the dust that had settled over them and galloped after the rest of the army, shouting at the soldiers to clear the way. He would have to tell the Ryzhie that what they had here in the valley was all that could get through.

* * *

"He has gone to do what?" Kiya stared at Geny in disbelief.

"I am sorry, Kiya." Geny looked away. "It was the only plan. The only way to stop the army from getting in and killing us all."

She stared at him in frustration for a long moment, then spun away, hurrying down the hall to the doors, and out onto the hillside. The cold air bit through her clothes and she looked down at the long skirts and thin woven jacket. She would have to ride there, and she would need warmer clothing, her medicines, blankets. She turned and walked back into the hall, ignoring the leader and the warriors around him, her pace increasing until she was running down the long, wide corridor to their rooms.

* * *

Sam and Ásbjorn watched the water sloshing into the hull, each pull of the sail on the mast widening the cracks.

"In my land, sailors use sails or cloth to stop the water from coming in through holes in the bottom of the boat." He turned to the Norseman, forehead crinkling up as he tried to remember exactly how it had been done. It wasn't exactly from his time or his land, for that matter, although he supposed it'd been a fairly universal way of solving the problem. He'd seen a movie about an eighteenth century ship that had been holed below the waterline. The sailors had taken a spare sail, packed it full of whatever absorbent material had been on board, and folded it over, then dropped it overboard, hauling it under the keel with ropes until they'd found the hole and the pressure of the water against the cloth held in it place, stopping or slowing the water influx until they could make land. He was pretty sure it would work here. The hull was shallow and broad, and the water-proofed cloth was big enough to stretch from gunwale to gunwale. He looked down at the frigid water. He wasn't sure if it could be done without someone having to go in and take a line under the hull.

"Fothering." The term was quaint and very old English and he had a mental flash of his brother's rolling eyes, as he said it.

The red-haired man looked at him thoughtfully. "Yes, I too have heard of this, when a ship is holed on a rock or reef." He gestured and the waxed cloth was pulled from the chest.

Sam looked around the boat. "Fold it in half, fill the centre with anything that will stiffen it."

"How do we get it under the hull?" The Norseman walked to Sam's side, peering into the clear, dark green water warily.

"I think someone will probably have to swim under. I can't remember how it was done from the deck."

"Swim?" Ásbjorn's eyes widened. "No one here can swim."

_Of course not_, Sam thought tiredly. _Spend all your lives at sea, fishing and sailing, why would you know how to swim?_

"I can swim." He glanced at Samyaza, who stood against the bulwark, watching the conversation. "But not with these."

Sam lifted his hands, the chains clinking softly against each other. Ásbjorn turned to the Watcher, and the five Norsemen packing the sail also straightened and turned to him.

Samyaza smiled and shrugged. "I will remove them." He glanced at the open water surrounding them. "It is unlikely you will make an escape attempt here, Sam."

* * *

Dean snapped awake at the noise, rising to one elbow as he took in Castiel's wild thrashing on the other side of Alis.

"What the –?"

Alis was trying to hold the angel's arm, lack of weight and leverage resulting in her being swung at the end of it.

"What happened?" Dean pushed the fur covers back and rolled over her onto Castiel, his weight holding him down as he grabbed for the other flailing arm.

"I don't know. He started to scream and then began shaking." Alis grunted, trapping the arm she held beneath her back. She leaned close to the angel's ear.

"Castiel, can you hear me?"

His head snapped around, blue eyes staring into hers, wide and fear-filled. "Help me, they want to kill me!"

Dean frowned. "Who wants to kill you, Cas?"

"All of them. They all do. They blame me. For doubting them. For trusting you, Dean."

"Do you know what he means?" Alis looked past Castiel to Dean.

"Not really, no." He gripped the angel's forearm tightly, holding it down. "Cas, it's not real. No one here is after you."

"You can't see them but they're here, Dean. Surrounding me. Everywhere."

Dean looked around the shadowy room slowly. The fire had died a little again, and the corners of the room were dim, and cold. His gaze moved over their gear, past the horses, stopping there for a moment as he realised one was down, then moving on again, to the far corner, on the other side of the doorway. The faint glint of a reflection stopped it.

"Crap." He barely breathed the word, feeling along his back for the knife that was sheathed there.

"What is it?" Alis saw the direction of his gaze, her eyes narrowing as she caught the reddish glint.

"I don't know. Ghoul maybe." He heard Cas muttering beside him, and revised that. Something that had come close enough to give Cas a good solid dose of psychotic paranoia, or hallucinations.

"You ever hear of djinn this far north?" he asked Alis. She kept her eyes on the corner.

"No."

What else did this? A memory trembled at the edge of his thought, screams and fear and hallucinations and a real monster he'd watched for through the … mirrors.

"Have you got anything silver?"

Alis lifted her leg, hand sliding down to the hilt of the slender blade that she kept in it, made for her by her father after an encounter in the mountains that had been much too close. She slid it free and over Castiel's chest, tapping his arm with the extended hilt. He looked down and took it.

"You'll have to hang onto Cas, make sure he doesn't get up, doesn't go anywhere. I'll take care of the wraith."

She nodded, and slid her leg over the angel's, shifting her weight on top of him and talking quietly to him, mostly the soft reassurances her mother had told her when she'd been feverish and sick. He froze for a long moment and began to settle a little, the dark blue eyes regaining some focus on her, seeing her, at least, instead of the phantoms in his mind.

Dean eased himself out from under the pile of furs, teeth clenching as the severe cold bit through his layers of clothing, and took every shred of the warmth he'd spent the night accumulating. He kept his gaze along the dim walls, away from the firelight, not wanting to lose any vision in the adjustment between light and dark as he shifted to the doorway. He saw the faint movement in the corner, a slight difference between two shades of grey really, enough to show him the position of the wraith, and to tell him that it knew it had been seen.

He thought it would go around the wall, away from him, toward the horses and he inched past the fire, shifting his weight to go that way when it broke, but it came straight at him, at first a shadow, gaining height and substance and definition as it came into the circle of firelight, a young, wiry boy, of maybe twelve or thirteen, smooth-cheeked and lanky limbed, and the combination of the sight and direction stopped him for a second. And the second was long enough for the creature to reach him.

The impression of a kid disappeared as the fingers curled around his arms, biting through the tough hide sleeves into his flesh like steel hooks. He threw himself backward, the wraith above him, his leg jackknifing tightly against his chest as he got the sole of his boot against its torso and shoved, rolling over and to his feet, the slim knife still in his hand. The wraith was launched off him by the thrust, hitting the wall beside the doorway with a dull crash, and falling to the floor as he came up, and took a long stride toward it. It hissed at him when the tip of the silver knife scored across its ribs, scurrying away from the door back to the corner.

_Sonofabitch is fast_, he thought remotely, following it and blocking the route around the wall, driving it back to the corner again. He watched it, waiting for the moment when it would realise it was trapped and attack again, nothing left to lose. It came as he thought it would, straight for him, lips drawn back from the teeth, eyes fixed on him. He dropped to one knee, twisting aside, as the creature flew over him, and the knife drove up from underneath, sliding between the ribs as he braced himself against its weight, its momentum and thrust hard into the heart.

The wraith blackened and shrivelled on the floor, arms and legs drawing in close to the body as if it was being consumed by fire.

"Cas alright, Alis?" He got to his feet, feeling his blood slowing down in the icy air, a shiver starting in his shoulders and rippling through him. He had to get back under the shelter, under the furs, get warm again. He stopped by the fire, throwing a dozen more branches and thick trunk pieces onto it, hands reaching out for its warmth, but barely feeling it.

"He's fine. Get under the shelter, Dean." Her voice was muffled by the layers that covered her, and he turned quickly, crawling under the bedroll furs, his teeth already chattering.

He found his way back, feeling the cooling area where he'd lain, the slightly warmer spot where she'd been.

"I didn't feel it touch me." Castiel said, his voice shaken.

"Might have come in while we were sleeping." Dean shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself, his clothing felt cold against his skin, and the furs and covers were heavy but not doing anything to warm him. He closed his eyes, shuddering as his muscles twitched continuously, trying to speed his blood through them. He felt Alis move closer, felt warm breath on his cheek and her hands close around his, warming them.

"Thanks."

"You did all the work."

* * *

Kiya stood in the woods, her grey and white and brown wolf cloak blending perfectly with the mixed birch and larch and pine surrounding her, the greyish dun mare standing silently behind her. She watched the Scythians riding down the valley, four abreast most of the time, where the road was wide enough, their bows strung and ready in their hands, small round shields and short swords hanging from their saddles. She'd left the village just before dawn, when the field had been clear, and had turned straight into the forest that covered the slope of the ridge on the western side, finding a place that was far enough inside the trees to be hidden from the eyes of those riding past, close enough to be able to see when the last of them had gone.

She ignored the panic in her mind and the frantic beating of her heart, thinking instead of the deer in the forest, the way they froze and simply waited until danger had passed, drawing no attention to themselves, not by sound or movement or thought.

She watched the last of the riders cross the river and waited another hour, forcing patience in herself. Then she mounted and rode across the slope, up to the rise of the road. Everywhere, the ground was churned up and slippery, the army's comings and going over the last week made worse by the severe frosts and the occasional snowfalls until the road and the surrounding fields and forest edges were a morass of sticky mud.

The small clearing that was the beginning of the Throat was still and silent. Over the leaves and ground, the rock and mud, white dust lay, a shroud hiding the destruction of the defile. When she looked up at where the tops of the pass had been, she felt her heart shrivel inside of her chest. That's where they'd been, she thought, her gaze sliding unwillingly down to the pile of rock that blocked the gap now. In her mind's eye she could see how it had happened, the explosion and the screams, the thunder of the rock cracking and falling, crushing those who'd been trapped inside it, and falling away from under the feet of the men who'd caused it.

She dismounted, walking slowly to a tree and tying her horse to it, then turning to the rocks. She stared up, and then started to climb.

* * *

Penemue lay on his side, hidden in the rocks that clung to the steep sides of the hill. Beside him, Ruane lay silently, her eyes closed as she listened through the rock for the tell-tale vibrations of hundreds of hooves coming down the road toward them. The small river roared as it was funnelled through the narrow channel in the rock beside the road, spray rising above the tumult, catching the morning sunshine and refracting into rainbows.

Ruane's eyes snapped open as she felt the vibration, faintly at first, then growing stronger, and she let her finger touch the Watcher's wrist lightly. She felt the answering pressure against the back of her hand, and her fingers closed over the bow in her other hand.

She would have only a few seconds to fire the circle, and get behind the ridge line where Lev was waiting with their horses. Further down the valley a half dozen archers were in the trees that lined the river bank, ready to provide diversionary fire as they moved back. Penemue would be staying, to talk to the Watcher once he was trapped. She hoped it would all work.

She felt Penemue turn over slowly, moving incrementally out past the line of the rock, flat and concealed within the stands of dried grass, as he looked down at the road where the trap lay. She had practised the rise, turn and fire dozens of times as the Watcher had laid the circle. Her marker was a small red pebble, off to one side of the road. She thought again of the precise angle she needed. There was no wind to take into account, the distance was short. There was nothing she needed to worry about except that her arrow struck the pebble, and she got down and out of the way as quickly as she could afterward.

She could hear them now, the crunch of the horse's feet over the pockets of gravel that laid across the road further up, the clink of armour and swords, hear them bunching together as the road narrowed, the river pressing it tight to the steep hillside, she thought she could even smell the horses, the sour, unwashed odour of the men, the oil and fat that greased their bowstrings and scabbards. Penemue's finger tapped her hand and she was on her feet, turning and seeing the red rock precisely where she expected it, the bowstring drawn back to her jaw, and released, the flaming arrowhead hitting the rock and the circle of flames leaping up. She heard the whicker of an arrow passing close by, felt the head lift the lock of her hair that always escaped from her plait, threw herself onto the ground and began move backwards through the grass and standing straw, her path fixed in her mind, behind the rocks, behind the sprawling wild rose vine, around the clumps of bracken that waved above her head, and the bare rock of the crest of the ridge.

* * *

Elbek opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as his eyelashes filled with dust that had coated the lids. He tried to lift his hand, to brush it off, and froze with the pain that forked through his side, making his hand twitch helplessly. He couldn't move. His legs were buried, he thought, unable to move any joint. He could feel the rocks pressing against his back, his ribs, covering one arm, resting over his hips. He wondered how much damage he'd had, and how long it would take him to die, unable to move.

The noise penetrated his consciousness slowly. A scuffling noise, at the other end of the defile … what had been the defile. He rolled his eyes in that direction, but could see little, the dust that covered his face kept getting into his eyes, no matter how much they watered to clear it, and his vision was blurred and whitish.

The click, click of rocks falling onto each other. If it was a Scythian, come up to finish them off, he'd be grateful, he thought. Feeling was returning to some of his body, and the steady ache in his right leg was growing worse.

His throat was thick and his tongue swelling with thirst. The craving for liquid had taken the edge from some of the pain. The sun wouldn't reach him for another hour or two, he thought, staring dazedly at the milky blue sky. When it did … he didn't want to think about that. He had to get some of these of rocks off himself.

The scream was piercing and shocked him into stillness. He still couldn't see anything at the end of the defile, but now he could hear sobbing, punctuated by harsh coughs, the sound of rocks being rolled and thrown. Sergei? He tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in his mouth, his throat dry. The sound came out as a soft croak, then nothing. He lifted his hand again, bracing himself for the remembered pain. The pain rolled over him in a titanic wave and consciousness fled before it.

* * *

Sam rubbed his wrists when Samyaza had removed the shackles. The skin was raw, blistered from the constant rubbing, but it would heal, he thought. He pulled off all but the close-fitting homespun undershirt and the tanned goat hide pants. He would need some buffer against the cold of the water, but not so much fabric that it could fill with water and drag him down. The air had warmed a little since the morning but was far from warm, perhaps minus ten or fifteen, he thought, as he shivered involuntarily.

"Get me out of the water as soon as I come on the other side." He looked as Ásbjorn who nodded seriously. "Did you find the brazier?"

"Yes, Sam, we have it." Stígandr said from behind him, gesturing at the flattened iron dish that stood on four legs, filled now with the splinters and sticks from the broken tiller, pale flames rising as the wood caught more strongly.

"Put my clothing near it. I'll have to get warm as quickly as I can."

The Norseman nodded, moving the pile of clothing close by the small fire.

Sam swung his leg over the edge of the bulwark, sitting on its squared off top, looking down into the bottle-green water. It would be cold, he thought to himself, a shock to his body. He had to be aware of that, ready for it. He pulled in several deep breaths, letting them out again, filling his lungs and muscles and bloodstream with oxygen. The long ropes that were attached to the clews of the storm sail were in his hands, he wouldn't even have to drag the sail under, just the ropes, once they were under the keel the rest could be done from the deck. He took another deep breath and tipped forward, half-diving into the sea.

The cold was beyond what he could have imagined and he felt his lungs freeze, his heart shudder to a stop, then beat again, falteringly regaining its rhythm. He opened his eyes, relieved that the water was at least clear and he could see the underside of the boat easily. He turned, feeling how slowly his muscles and nerves responded, and pushed himself with all of his will, to keep swimming, to keep going under it and coming up the other side, the ropes trailing behind like seaweed.

He gripped the flat edge of the keel as he passed under it, unable to feel it with his fingers, his eyes alone telling him that he was holding it. The cold kept penetrating, deeper and deeper inside him, he pulled as hard as he could against the keel edge and his hands scrabbled along the smooth, planked side, the colour of the water becoming lighter as he got closer to the surface.

He felt his head break through the water distantly, his mouth opening and dragging in a breath of ice cold air, the cold within and the cold against his skin combining to almost stop his heart, his vision greying as the blood rushed to his core. He felt fingers close around his wrists and arms, lifting him out of the water, many voices mixed together, like the rush of rapids in a narrow gorge, he opened his eyes and through the blurry film of seawater saw the bright red hair of Ásbjorn beside him.

"Get him dry!" Samyaza's voice roared out over them and two of the men hauled on the ropes, drawing the sail down under the water and against the hull, while Ásbjorn and Stígandr lifted Sam close to the fire, pulling off his wet clothes and rubbing his arms and legs hard, both seeing the paleness of his skin, the blue around his mouth, along his fingers and feet. Sam's head lolled back as the two men pulled on shirts and pants, laying him on the thwart closest to the brazier and draping the heavy white fur cloak over him. Samyaza looked down at him, frowning at the blue of his lips, and laid his fingers against the carotid artery in Sam's neck. His pulse beat slowly but steadily against his fingertips, his chest rising and falling slowly, but steadily under the cloak. Time, the Watcher thought, time to warm again, gradually, time to recover from the shock of the cold. He would be fine.

* * *

Dean could hear water dripping. The air he was breathing was warm. He was warm. His arms were wrapped around her again, he could feel her cheek against the flat bicep. She was facing him this time, and he opened his eyes slowly, looking down at her, feeling her arm draped over his side. He didn't remember much after he'd crawled into the furs. She'd held his hands, hers warm and warming his. He must have fallen asleep.

The fire was burning brightly, and he thought that the deepest cold had gone now. Maybe that was why he could hear drips.

He didn't want to move. Didn't want to lose this warmth to go out into the cold again. He let his held breath out softly.

He eased himself away from Alis, and slithered out from under the furs, rolling out from under the shelter hide. The fire was burning warm, and the vicious bite was no longer in the air. He pulled his cloak from the pile under the shelter, and looked at the horses. His mare and Castiel's gelding were lipping at the remains of the fodder he'd brought in, but Alis' dun lay on the ground, stiff and unmoving. The blanket that Alis had thrown over them still covered the other two. He walked over to them, pulling the blanket off and untied them, leading them past the dead wraith and the fire, and through the doorway.

As he climbed the curving stairs to the surface, the air became cooler, but it was not that deep freeze cold they'd felt when the storm had been overhead. At the top of the stairs, he stopped, looking out past the half-standing walls.

Everything was glazed in ice, the reflections spearing into his eyes from a hundred different directions in the pale sunlight. The horses snorted behind him, and he led them out, hearing the crunch of the ice beneath their feet. Snow had piled in deep drifts behind the walls and stone blocks, but had been swept clear of the exposed ground. The world was grey and brown and pale gold, and he wondered how they were going to find enough food for the horses in this desolation.

He tied the horses near the small stream, and returned to the camp. Alis had woken and was packing up the shelter hides. Over the fire, the iron pot was bubbling, and he realised he was starving.

"I would estimate another weeks' travel to the mage's fortress in the north." Castiel looked across at Dean, as they walked the horses along the rudimentary track that led out of the valley. Alis sat behind the angel, the two remaining horses would alternate carrying her extra weight.

Dean looked at the countryside, feeling the familiar rush of urgency and clamping down hard on it. "We're not going to be able to find enough food for the horses if it's all like this."

"They will be able to forage for themselves until we get to the fortress, I think," Castiel said. "From there, my understanding is that we will probably have to walk to the coast."

"Awesome." Dean glanced back at him. "How far is that?"

"Two hundred miles."

"We're not going to make it, Cas," Dean's voice was bleak.

"We will, just … I think."

Dean looked away. There was no point arguing about it, he thought. The distances were the distances, they had no choice but to keep going, as fast as they could, until they got there, and hope it would be in time.

His attention was caught by an odd looking hump off the track, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the ice that covered it. As they rode closer, he began to make out what the hump was.

The deer had run in front of the storm, he thought, until they couldn't run anymore. He dismounted, going to look more closely at them. The bodies had been torn apart, and the meat was rock hard. He looked up at Castiel and Alis.

"The ice storm?"

"Yes." Castiel nodded. "We were lucky that you saw the ruins, Dean."

He mounted and turned away, pushing the mare into a trot. Lucky didn't begin to cover it, he thought.

* * *

Elbek opened his eyes, and thought he must be dreaming … or dead. Kiya's face filled his vision, her dark hair covered with white dust, and drawn back from her face, the slight frown he knew well drawing her brows together.

She lifted her gaze and her eyes met his, softening instantly, though he could see that she was afraid, behind the relief in her face.

He felt a trickle of water over his mouth and opened it slightly, the moisture hitting his tongue, making a paste of the dust that still coated it.

"Don't move. Just stay still." Her voice was very low. "It will take me some time to get you free, Elbek."

He looked up at her, wanting to nod, but afraid of what pain might come down on him if he did. His eyes searched her face for some intimation of his condition.

"You will be fine." She saw the uncertainty in him and laid her hand lightly against his face. "I just have to get you out of here, and you will be fine."

He knew she was trying to convince him of that, but he could see that she was still unsure herself if it were true.

* * *

The island rose from the horizon gradually, the snow-capped peak of the volcano appearing first, the wide cone taking up the entire northern end of the island. The wind had been steady and light, and the repairs to the hull had held the water out over the calm seas.

Samyaza watched the island rising steadily from the sea. The ship turned west as they saw the smaller range of the southern end, could make out the furl of the waves on the long spit that protected the lagoon along the low isthmus connecting the high ends of the island together.

"Where are you going?" He turned to Ásbjorn angrily. The Norseman returned his look without expression.

"This side is no good for us. Too exposed. The western side is protected, we can land there."

Sam looked at the Watcher struggling with the information, finally turning away and remaining silent. He wanted off the damned boat himself, but he could see even from here that the long coastline was no place to put in. As they reached the south west headland, the little wind died away altogether and the men freed the sail, lowering the yard as Ásbjorn pushed against the tiller and the ship turned north east, slipping through the calm water steadily.

The longship came into the quiet bay with a rattle of oars, the sail furled against the yard and the men struggling with the long blades with so few of them. Sam heard the crunch as the bow touched the grey pumice sand along the shoreline, driving up a little into the soft volcanic rock.

Samyaza let out a long exhale, climbing to the bow and jumping onto the grey sand. It was midday but barely light, the sun low over the horizon, its rays red and cool, lighting the dark basalt rock and bleached driftwood on the shore with a bloody tint.

Sam walked to the bow, the chains back on his wrists, clinking, as he put both hands on the bulwark and vaulted over it, his feet hitting the sand. After so many days at sea, he felt himself wobble as he walked up the beach, his body still expecting movement and finding none.

Behind him, the Norsemen jumped down from the ship's bows.

"Get ready to get back into the boat, Sam." Ásbjorn's voice was next to his ear, and he half-turned toward the Watcher, eyes widening slightly as he saw the men spreading out around him.

"If you value your lives, you will not test me, Ásbjorn." Samyaza turned slowly. "You have fulfilled the contract, and delivered us here. Do not presume to think that my tolerance will extend any further."

"Sam is an honourable man. Whatever fate you have in store for him, you will not take him while we live." Ásbjorn drew the long sword from the scabbard at his hip. "Men of courage deserve to die in battle, not at the whim of the unnatural."

The men had circled Samyaza, their long swords in their hands. Sam looked at the Watcher, seeing the red glint in his eyes.

"Ásbjorn – no, wait." Sam stumbled forward. "It's not the Watcher, it's the mage!"

Samyaza raised his hands, his arms moving to either side. Between the palms, a crackling bolt of purple lightning appeared, brilliant in the darkness, burning with the smell of ozone, the acrid scent strong in the still air.

The Watcher's hands flew apart and the bolt grew, snapping out from the mage's hands to strike all the men, the enormous energy fluxing between them, filling them with a coruscant flickering light that poured from their eyes, from their wide open mouths, as they burned from the inside out.

Sam spun away, his arm over his eyes as the light brightened unbearably, and the stench of cooking meat filled the beach. He heard the thumps as the bodies fell to the sand, and knelt on the shore, head bowed and eyes closed.

"Come on Sam, we have a walk ahead of us and a lot to do before the solstice."

The words penetrated slowly. _The solstice. Of course_. He felt the Watcher's hand on his shoulder, fingers biting in as he was lifted. He couldn't look at the burned bodies as they passed by them, keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him.


	39. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

* * *

Penemue looked down at the Watcher, sitting on his horse in the centre of the circle of burning oil. The Scythians had backed away up the hill, uncertain of what had happened, why their leader stood within the circle without moving.

Armârôs looked up, scowling as he saw Penemue above him.

"You think this will change anything, Penemue? Kokabiel has cleared the pass. His army is marching up the valley, killing everything that they come across."

Penemue walked around the rock and leaned against the sun-warmed side, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"You want to be a sorcerer's cat's-paw, Armârôs? You?"

"Do you think these creatures have done such a good job on this earth, Penemue? Do you think that this is what was envisaged when God created them? War? Torture? The strong always in control of the weak?"

"So you think Lucifer will clean house and create Paradise for us on Earth?" The dark-haired Watcher smiled mockingly.

"He would have done it if Michael had not cast him down."

"I doubt it. Lucifer was a child, still is a child. His inability to focus on one thing for long would have driven him to decide that something else was wrong, needed to be cleansed … and probably the next thing would have been us."

Armârôs was silent.

"God has a purpose for humanity, but you know his timeframes, Armârôs. He doesn't look at anything less than a hundred million years."

"That's the problem, Penemue. None of us can wait that long."

"I don't think you have a choice." The Watcher stood up, glancing at the milling demon-possessed archers on the hill as he walked down the slope to the road.

"How much of this plan is what you feel in your own heart, and how much is the poison that the mage has fed you?"

"It doesn't matter. I can't shut him out, his thoughts crawl through my mind, like the worms crawl through the dead. He will not rest, will not let us rest until the enemy is found and destroyed."

"The Corival?"

"Yes."

"Then you're too late, my friend. The Corival left the mountains weeks ago."

Armârôs lifted his head. "No. He would have known that. He would have sent us in pursuit."

"I wouldn't trust too much as to what the mage really knows, and all that he doesn't. It is the truth, Armârôs, the man who will defeat Lucifer left over a month ago." Penemue looked at him. "Your efforts here will do no more than destroy several hundred people in pointless slaughter. Is that what you want?"

The Watcher closed his eyes.

"I can free you, Armârôs. But not if you want this destruction, the angel of the morning to rise again." Penemue stepped close to the edge of the circle. "We are brothers, tell me the truth of your heart."

"No one can free me now." Armârôs said softly, looking at Penemue.

"I can."

"I didn't want to kill them, Penemue."

"Then be free. And help us to contain Kokabiel and release him from the mage's control as well."

"How?"

Penemue looked up the slope, lifting his arm and waving. Ruane and Lev appeared over the crest of the ridge, their horses picking their way slowly down the steep slope.

"Can you control these demons? Kill them?"

Armârôs shook his head. "Only Kokabiel has that level of control over them. The mage controls them through me."

"Can you send them away? Now, before we free you?" Penemue looked past him to the ranks of the Scythians, still milling around on the slope.

"Perhaps. I can order them to find Kokabiel, I think, to ride until they reach them. That will only add to his army." He looked back over his shoulder at the men behind him. "One of your people closed the pass we came through. I have only a thousand men here."

Penemue nodded. "Send them south, fast, doing no damage along the way, only to meet with Kokabiel at the southern pass. We'll deal with them later."

Armârôs closed his eyes and Penemue watched curiously as the Scythians stopped moving, every soldier's head rising as they appeared to listen attentively. With a rush, they charged down the road, breaking to skirt the circle on either side, flowing together again like a river down the road to the south. Penemue watched as the archers in the woods began firing, and the bodies of the dead soldiers fell from their horses, flashing in red-gold as the blood metal arrowheads pierced heart and lung, head and throat.

"How can you save me?" Armârôs dismounted, slapping the horse's rump and sending it out of the circle.

"Kneel down."

He turned as Ruane drew her horse up beside him, sliding off and stepping across the flames. She looked at the broad-shoulder Watcher, kneeling before her, then back at Penemue, her expression worried. He nodded to her, and she stepped behind Armârôs, lifting his hair from the back of his neck. The Watcher shivered slightly at the light touch.

Ruane's fingers slid through the copper-coloured hair, rising slowly from the nape. She felt the round bead, and gripped it tightly, pulling it straight back. The Watcher collapsed onto his hands as it came free, the crystal needle blazing for a moment in the bright sunshine, then blackening, burning her fingers. She dropped it and it fell to the ground, the structure of the crystal dark and crazed and fractured.

Lev walked around the circle, pouring dirt over the flames, smothering them and opening the circle. Penemue stepped through, laying his hand on Armârôs' shoulder.

"Come. We have a lot of work to do."

* * *

Dean stared down into the valley suspiciously. Everywhere else, sunshine and a fresh breeze filled the open country, but as they'd come over the ridge, the broad, shallow dale in front of them was shadowy and dim, and filled from one side to the other with mist.

"I take it we've found the right place." He glanced at Castiel.

The angel nodded. "Yes."

"My mother said that we had to be very, very careful here. When she saw this place, in the water, the mage had trapped many things in the circles he left around the fortress, and they're still there, held inside the circles, inside the mists." Alis sat behind Dean, staring down into the murky area.

"Great. What are we talking about here? Monsters? Ghosts? Undead?"

"Yes."

He turned to look over his shoulder at her.

"We'll have to turn the horses loose here, I think." Castiel dismounted, and began to unpack their supplies from the saddle. "We can't take them into this place, and we're about at the end of the region where they can feed themselves."

Alis slipped her arm through Dean's, swinging her leg over and dropping to the ground beside his horse. She walked to the pile of supplies. Everything would have to be repacked if they were carrying it themselves. Dean dismounted, undoing the saddle bags and bedrolls, adding them to the pile.

"I don't suppose you've given much thought as to how we're going to get back, Cas, if we actually make it through this?" He looked at the angel. Castiel put the rolled hide in his hands onto the pile and straightened slowly.

"I don't think that's going to be something we need to worry about, Dean."

"Right." He turned away, unsaddling the gelding and slipping the bridle off. He'd had the same feeling, not wanting to acknowledge it, but knowing it was the probable outcome, even if they were able to stop Lucifer. He glanced at Alis, wondering if he could convince her to turn back now. He doubted it.

They left almost all the food, the saddles, bedrolls and the shelter hides behind, keeping only what they could carry comfortably. Before they'd left the village, Torgva had given them new sets of chainmail, lighter than the soft iron wire links, the mail had been made from thin sheet, cut and hammered into flat circles. Alis pulled the hauberks from their packs, and pulled hers on, the extra weight worth it for the protection it could give against claw or teeth. Dean sighed as he felt the weight drop over his shoulders again, he'd been enjoying the respite from heavy armour. He fastened the cuirass over the mail, vaguely surprised he could even move with the number of layers he was wearing. He resettled his belt, knowing now where the hilt of the sword was without having to look, feeling the flat sheath against the back of his hip, holding the long blood metal knife. Another blade was tucked into the inside of his boot. They hadn't brought shields, but his bow and the quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. He shook his head. He was loaded for bear … or ogre.

They moved down the gentle slope of the hill into the valley, Dean taking point, sword drawn, Castiel behind him and Alis watching the rear, her bow strung with an arrow nocked. The mists swirled apart and rejoined behind them as they got closer to the lake that Castiel had assured them was there.

He stopped as he reached the shore, staring at the milky azure lake in surprise. It wasn't particularly large, perhaps a half mile in length, much less across. The colour reminded him of the turquoise that was ubiquitous in the south western states, worked by the Native Americans and set in silver. He'd been expecting something deeper, darker, altogether more Loch Ness-ish. Castiel walked up beside him, glancing at it.

"Glacial." The angel's voice was very soft. "This way."

They came upon the first circle unexpectedly, the mist thick and claustrophobic, Castiel not seeing the faint difference in the colour of the ground as he stepped across the line into it. Dean's hand snapped out, fingers curling around the top edge of the back plate and yanking him back across as three figures appeared in front of them.

The luminescent skin, the vivid eyes and the dried blood staining the front of the ragged clothing all told him exactly what they were. He half-turned to Alis, who stood with her back to them, gaze scanning the grey wall of fog behind them.

"Decapitation, right?"

She glanced over her shoulder at the creatures and nodded, turning back to watch the mist.

Dean looked at Castiel. "Vampires. Cut off their heads."

He watched as Cas drew the long sword from the scabbard, the blade winking in the faint light as he twirled it in a figure-of-eight pattern, loosening his wrists and the muscles of his forearms.

They split up, each moving to one side of the circle, the bright eyes of the vampires following them avidly. Dean realised his mistake as soon as he stepped across the line into the circle, and saw the vampire in front of him disappear. _Old vampires. Old, powerful vampires. Crap_.

He spun around, sword raised, his eyes searching the thin mist for any sign. A glimmer of pale skin appeared to his left, and he swung the point of the sword that way, a low laugh echoed softly to his right, and he realised that he needed Cas behind him, they would get slaughtered here on their own.

_Brave warrior, how hot and sweet your blood will taste._

The words were murmured in his mind, grating behind his eyes, and he began to back up, glancing down and back briefly to find the edge of the circle. There was nothing there, and he moved faster, head turning from side to side as he tried to watch every direction, glancing down again. Still no sign of the line that marked the edge of the circle. _Crap. Crap. Crap._ What had happened to it?

"Cas!" He'd shouted the angel's name but the sound was swallowed by the mist, and even in his own ears it seemed faint and distant. "CAS!"

He thought he heard an answer, but it could have been anything, really. He felt … something … behind him, and swung around, the metal of his blade hissing through the air. Nothing.

_So young. So fresh. I can hear your heart, pounding inside you, I can hear the rush of your blood in your veins …_

The voice filled his head, deep and rich and filled with avarice. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to shake it off, get his head clear again. Fingers gripped his shoulders and he felt them pulling at the stiff collar of his cuirass, long nails dragging over his skin as he was pulled over backwards, hitting the ground hard, the vampire leaning over him, and the pointed teeth sinking into the side of his neck.

He heard the scream in his head, then the pain was gone, the weight of the creature on him was gone and he felt a tug on the breastplate, pulling him to his feet.

Alis stood in front of him, her fingers loosening their grip on the edge of the armour as he stumbled toward her, the long edge of her sword bloody. On the ground beside him, he could see the rag-shrouded body of the vampire, blooding pooling around the neck. He couldn't see the head anywhere.

"Where is Castiel?" She gestured for him to turn around, and he shifted, his back close to hers.

"I don't know. Somewhere on the other side of the circle." He watched the mists in front of him, remembering the speed of these vamps, the way they'd disappeared. "I couldn't find the edge of the circle."

Alis nodded, glancing back at him. "These vampires are old, Dean. They can create illusions, hide themselves. It is best to face them with someone else, not alone."

"Yeah, I get that."

"This way." She moved decisively toward the thicker mists, and he backed after her, feeling the warmth of his blood still trickling down his neck, soaking into his shirt. He could hear something, muffled but definite.

The mists swirled apart as Alis increased her speed, and Dean's brief glance showed Castiel, lying on the ground, his sword point red, and blood flowing from a cut on his face, a ragged tear in his throat. He couldn't see the vampires, his gaze shifting around the boundaries of the mists frantically. Alis stepped forward and swung her sword, and he caught a flicker of something moving away from the cold metal edge, a shape that disappeared as soon as his eyes tried to focus on it. She swung again, and he felt … something … next to him, cold breath against his face … he spun away from Alis, his sword rising in a sharp, upward arc, he felt the edge bite deeply, blood splattering into the air, felt the blade hit an obstruction, stop for a second and then carry through as he kept turning.

The body lay on the ground a few feet from him, and he stared at the blood dripping from the point of his sword. The head was a few feet further, lifted and carried by the force of the cut, the tangled black hair covering the face, the raw edges of the blow that had severed it bright red.

He turned around, seeing Alis leaning over Castiel, her sword lying next to her on the ground. She straightened, picking up the blade and extending her hand to the angel, leaning back as she pulled him to his feet.

He wiped the sword blade clean and slid it back into the scabbard, looking at the head that lay near Castiel's feet. The skin was grey, taut over the bones of the skull, in death the open eyes had lost their brilliance, the irises just an ordinary pale blue. The long, snaggled teeth were still exposed, the points deep red from the angel's blood.

"You alright Cas?"

"Yes." Castiel wiped at the tear on his neck. "We should have stayed together."

"Yeah." Dean looked down at Alis as she came up to him.

"Lift your head." She gestured to one side, staring at his neck. "Just a scratch."

He snorted. "Doesn't feel like a friggin' scratch."

"It's already clotting." She cleaned her blade and looked back at him. "Let me know if it starts to ache."

"Why?"

"In case the teeth were dirty or poisoned."

He looked at Castiel. The angel shrugged, turning away.

* * *

The path was barely a goat track, leading across the windswept hills to the low-lying isthmus and then curving up the side of the volcano. Sam followed Samyaza, the Watcher holding the length of chain that linked his wrists now, jerking it forward if he slowed down for any reason. The sun had set an hour ago, and they moved through the countryside by the light of a crescent moon, a little stronger than just the starlight, but not by much.

He felt tired to the marrow of his bones, stumbling where he couldn't see the ground his feet were trying to navigate, the long weeks of travel had taken the reserves of his body, and the deaths of the men who'd been trying to save him had taken his will. He should have seen it coming, should have warned them, should have … he didn't know what he could have done.

The winter solstice, December 21. He'd lost track of the date weeks ago, and he started to go back in his mind, working back through the days, through the weeks, counting. He was a little surprised as he realised it was still two weeks away. Two weeks in Cesare's company was going to be trying, he thought.

Samyaza stopped when they reached the beginning of the isthmus. Sam looked across the low ground, to the cone-shaped mountain beyond, surprised that the Watcher hadn't insisted on walking through the night, now that they were so close.

"It is another twelve miles to the cave. You are tired. We will sleep here, continue in the morning." The Watcher gathered wood, and lit a small fire, glancing up at Sam as he stood there. "Sit. Rest."

Sam sat down, leaning up against the rough bark of a pine. The Watcher wasn't himself, but it hadn't been Cesare talking either. The mage had noticed the rescue attempt and left straight after. Must be difficult keeping track of so many vassals, he thought with a weary amusement.

Samyaza made a pungent tea over the fire, pouring it into cups and handing one to Sam. There was no food, but the tea was hot, warming him as he drank it.

He couldn't keep his attention on the question of what Cesare had had to rush off to sort out. He was too tired, too filled with tension and worry and sadness. The cup fell from his fingers as he slipped to one side, hitting the ground with his shoulder.

Samyaza tipped the contents of the second cup onto the ground, and from the pot. He walked to the spring and refilled the pot, setting it over the fire again. He moved stiffly, animated by the distant will of the mage, watching his body with an anguished helplessness, his mind trapped inside of the lattice of the crystal.

* * *

Armârôs sat in the great hall of Deep Ice, drinking the hot tea and watching the humans as they talked of what to do about Kokabiel and the army marching through the southern pass. When the needle had been withdrawn, he'd been overwhelmed with sensation, the sensations of his own body, feeling cold, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, all at the same time. He wondered how much of the past few months he'd missed, not realising when the mage had taken him over, not feeling the imprisonment.

For much of the time when he'd been aware, controlling his body, or thinking that he was, he had naturally assumed the thoughts in his mind were his own. It had come as a shock to realise how few of them had been. He'd never been in Lucifer's rebellion, never thought that the angel's assertions about humankind had been correct, or anything other than the wilful jealousy of a child who been fawned upon and favoured and had never learned to share.

Kokabiel would have been more strongly repressed by the mage, he thought now. The Watcher had chosen to fall freely, chosen to teach man, obsessive over his responsibilities as the keeper of the demons. He would have to have been gagged and bound to have done what he had, his powers used to such a destructive end. They had all lived on earth for thousands of years, mortal enough to be killed but not to die of age. Those who had survived the Flood, and had hidden in the wilderness from God's wrath, had been divided into two separate factions when Lucifer had led his rebellion. Only eleven of them had remained true to their vows. The Others had left Jordan, going into the desert in the east, into the lands of Persia.

Trying to free Kokabiel would not be possible in the way that Penemue had rescued him, he realised. It was very unlikely the Watcher would controlling his body or thoughts or even present in them.

"Penemue, you will not be able to take Kokabiel as you did me." He leaned forward, looking at him.

"Why?" Penemue looked at him, the eyes of the humans all turning to him as well.

"He was more passionate about mankind. Cesare will not have allowed him out of the crystal at all."

The dark-haired Watcher looked down at the table thoughtfully.

"If we cannot take him with the holy oil, then we must kill him," Ruane said quietly.

Armârôs shook his head. "The mage will ride his dead body as happily as his living one, and if he is dead he will not be able to control the demons. They are bound to the flesh of the Scythians, unable to return to Hell even with Kokabiel's death. They will take out their frustrations and anger on those around them as viciously as if the mage still controlled them."

"Then what?" Torgva scowled. "The army is monstrous. They can destroy us with sheer numbers even though they cannot cross the walls."

Armârôs nodded. "Yes, doing nothing is not an option either."

"We need to get rid of the mage's control. To hide Kokabiel from it ... or," Penemue turned to Valenis. "In your knowledge of herbs, is there a plant that could block a mage's power?"

Valenis looked at him. "There is a plant. Night jessamine. It robs a witch of their power, binds it within them."

"Please do not tell me it lives only in the deserts of the south."

She smiled. "No, I have dried leaves here and tinctures and distillates made of the plants. It is also a powerful sedative, useful for dealing with very bad injuries."

"Good." He looked at Armârôs. "If we can block the access of the mage, what will happen?"

Armârôs shook his head. "For me, if Cesare had withdrawn, I felt myself come back into my body. For Kokabiel, I do not know. He would not be allowed out of the crystal, I think, even if Cesare were not present."

"Would he stop? Fall asleep?" Ruane looked from Penemue to Armârôs.

"Possibly." Armârôs shook his head. "I do not know, not to be certain of what he does."

"Yuri said that on two days they watched the army, the leader did not come out of his tent at all." She glanced at Valenis. "The army did not find this surprising, the door to the tent remained closed and no one disturbed it."

"Sounds like he might be … incapacitated." Penemue rubbed his finger over his brow, his attention turned inward for a moment, as he thought of how they could make that work to their advantage. "Getting close enough will be the difficulty here."

Valenis looked down at the table for a moment. "When I was in the south, I was in a city, close by the sea, a trading city." She looked up at Penemue, her eyes not quite meeting his, dark with a memory. "There were many slaves brought to that city, to be bought or sold."

He nodded, knowing the city. Anything could be bought and sold there, traders from the East and the west exchanging goods at the huge market.

"I met a man who had come from very far south, a man with skin as black as a raven's feathers. He told me that he had lived in a land where it rained every day through the summer, where the plants grew tall and thick. He had a … pipe, perhaps the height of a tall man, of river cane. He told me that he used this pipe with darts, to hunt small game in the forests where he lived. It was silent, and the darts could be dipped in poison or in the distillates of powerful herbs that would paralyse the prey."

Armârôs frowned. "I too have seen this weapon. The aim is extremely accurate and the range can be quite far."

Penemue looked at Valenis. "River cane? And we tip the darts with the jessamine?"

She nodded. "The jessamine will work quickly, within a minute of being in the bloodstream. The mage will be blocked and the Watcher will begin to feel sleepy. If he returns to his tent, we may be able to get in and remove the needle."

"If, if, if …" Torgva looked at her. "If anyone can get close enough to the camp unseen. If we can make such a weapon. If the weapon is accurate and the dart strikes the target. If it works and someone can get into the tent without being captured."

Penemue smiled. "Yes. There are many factors. But I believe that it is the best option so far?"

* * *

"So that's an ogre." Dean looked down at the body on the ground. Lev had been fairly accurate in his description, big, heavy, ugly. The massive mace that the creature had used lay a couple of feet from its hand, the wan light gleaming on the dark grey metal, glinting off the sharp extended points. He turned his gaze back to the wound on Alis' back, gripping the curved bone needle tightly as he threaded the sinew through the holes he'd made along the edge of the cut.

She hissed softly as he pulled it through and tied it off. "Yes, they always have a bad temper, but this one was probably insane with anger after so many years trapped here."

The cut was long and deep, down to the shoulder blade. She'd been caught on the backswing of the mace, the point ripping through the leather back plate, the chainmail, and two layers of clothing under that. Castiel had actually thrown his sword to deliver the death blow, the long blade piercing the ogre's neck in the fraction of a second when the head had been lifted and turned to see the woman behind it.

They'd been more cautious about the circles after the vampires, and had found and killed a werewolf without difficulty. The man had been half-transformed, despite the moon being weeks from full, and had remained that way even after death. Castiel thought it was because of the spells on the circles. The ogre had been a surprise, coming out the mist at full charge with a shocking speed for something of that size. Alis had been buzzing the creature, firing arrow after arrow at it from behind as he and Castiel had faced it from the front, when she'd been hit.

He tied off the last stitch and looked at the wound, wondering how he was going to secure a dressing there. Alis looked over her shoulder at him, and gestured to the soft, tanned hide bag that held her supplies. He picked it up and passed it to her, watching as she pulled out a small clay pot.

"Cover it with this. Thickly."

The paste in the pot was cold and thick and he scooped out a big lump, smearing it over the cut and the stitches, glancing at her as she flinched. When it was covered, she handed him a thin piece of woven cloth and he set it over the sticky unguent. Alis pulled her shirt up, and lifted her arm. The cut pulled a little, but she would have enough movement, she thought. Not that she would have any choice in the matter.

They left the ogre's circle and kept moving. The light in the valley didn't seem to vary, although night had to be approaching. The mists were thick, and moved around them, getting lighter and darker, rippling in an unseen, unfelt breeze. The air felt heavy and close, sometimes warmer, sometimes colder, more effects of the spells that were woven through the valley. Twice now, the mists had swirled apart and Dean had caught a glimpse of a tower, grey stone covered with moss and the dead skeletons of vines. Each time, he'd begun to walk in that direction and the mists had closed around them and they'd found nothing.

Castiel remembered Vasiliĭ's story about the place, the villagers rising up and coming here to kill the mage, becoming lost and never returning. It was entirely too easy to believe that they might wander around the valley, a few hundred yards from the sunshine and never find their way out.

Dean stopped, his hand reaching out for Castiel's arm as he stared at the tower that had again materialised as the mists parted in front of him. Castiel followed his gaze and nodded. The tower seemed much closer this time, he could see the arrow slits in the walls, and the moisture dripping down one side, the moss thick and a deep green along its edge.

They turned, and began to walk toward it. The mists parted in front of them, and Dean could see a part of the wall now as well, his stride lengthening as it seemed that they might reach the building this time.

The sound that came from the wall of mist to their right wasn't loud. A scraping, sliding sound. Dean stopped, Castiel beside him, Alis a pace behind them, all three listening, none noticing that the tower had disappeared again, the fog rising up in front of it. Alis turned slowly to the right, her hand on her sword hilt, eyes narrowed as she tried to see through the amorphous cloud.

Glimpses through the shifting mist. Long points, like the edge of a deeply serrated knife, outlined briefly against the grey. A serpentine shape sliding away from them, disappearing as the fog thickened. The sound again, almost like metal dragged over stone, but not quite. And then, much closer, breathing, in and out, the sigh of the inhale, the hiss of the exhale.

The mist billowed suddenly, bulging and then tearing apart, the shreds parting. Dean looked at the creature in front of him, his head lifting as he looked up at the head, seven feet above him, the graceful curve of the horns to either side catching the flat light, his gaze travelled in disbelief along the length of the body, the high, bony haunches sweeping down a long supple tail. The head lowered suddenly and the lambent silver eyes fixed on his.


	40. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

* * *

_A dragon_, he thought, staring into the bright silver of its eyes. _I'm looking at a freakin' dragon_. _Don't look into their eyes_, Alis' voice sounded far off in his memories. _Too late_, he thought anxiously.

The body, from nose tip to tail tip was at least forty feet long. The long, supple neck was ridged from the back of the skull down along the length of the spine with sharp, elongated horns, ridged in a spiral as if they'd grown upward like a sea shell, gleaming black. Dark indigo hide, iridescent where the flat light touched it, the scales not armoured but smooth and flexible like the skin of a snake, was stretched over a lean, bony frame. He looked at the wings rising high into the air and folded back to lie against the ribs, delicately stretched skin between the long bones, to the point of the high hips, then falling sharply to the sinuous curve of the tail, lying still, except for the tip which was twitching back and forth.

He'd thought the wyvern fantastic and gaudy. The wyvern had nothing on this thing. It was huge, and unbelievable … and undoubtedly real.

For a long moment, humans and dragon looked at each other. Then the dragon moved, so fast that Dean and Castiel didn't have time to even react, the tail sweeping out in a curve like a whip, catching Alis around the back and throwing her toward the dragon's front. She hit the ground hard, rolling until she came up against the foreleg and the dragon lifted its foot and trapped her within the cage of its claws.

Dean looked down at her, then back up to the dragon. Killing a dragon needed two, he remembered, the decoy and the one who did the butcher's work. He didn't think this dragon would be fooled by a decoy.

_You don't look much like the saviour of the world._

He started as he heard the words clearly in his mind, as he had with the vampires, the dragon's voice cool and light, the disparaging tone emotional rather than vocal.

_Do not get into a pissing contest with a dragon_, he told himself firmly.

"I thought you'd be bigger too." The words came out without thought and he winced a little. What filled his mind wasn't precisely laughter, but that was the closest he could come to describing it, and he felt himself relax very slightly, staring into the crystalline depths of the light-filled eyes.

_A trade, human. My freedom for your companion._

"And then what? You fire up the barbeque and eat us?"

_If that had been my intent, do you think you would still be standing now?_

"I don't know what your intent is, but I'm not dealing until she walks away, unharmed."

The tail twitched a little faster. He could see it in the periphery of his vision, the image bringing to mind a thwarted and angry feline.

He felt a weight drop over his mind, as if a mountain had fallen on him, pressing him down inexorably, a weight of knowledge and age. His mind staggered as images filled it, flickering past almost faster than he could register. A blazing path of stars, a planet with a red sky and two suns, a mountain range, jagged and black, rising from a sea, thousands of dragons, with massive wingspans, gliding through a black sky, starlight outlining their shape. He closed his eyes and dropped to his knees, hands pressed against his head, the voice of the dragon reverberating against the inside of his skull.

_I have travelled the starpath for millennia, Corival, I have seen worlds destroyed and worlds created. So let there be an understanding between us, you have no position of strength. The woman will be released, unharmed, if you give your word you will free me from this trap because we have a job to do, you and I._

The weight disappeared, and the images, and Dean sat still, listening to the ringing silence in his mind for a moment, trying to take in what the creature had said.

Castiel looked anxiously from Dean to the dragon and back, trying to make sense of the one-sided conversation he could hear. He watched as Dean lifted his head slowly, his eyes meeting the dragon's.

"What did you call me?"

_You know what you are._

He shook his head. "I know what people think I am. How do you know about that?"

The dragon snorted very softly, the wings rustling against its sides.

_Who do you think showed the vision to the prophet?_

"You? Why?"

The dragon turned its gaze onto Castiel briefly.

Resignation. _The angels did not do their job. We have always been able to see along the lines and it was seen that if the angel rises now, he will have the power to destroy not just this world but all worlds. This angel will destroy everything in Creation in his rage, in his pride. We are long-lived, but still we are mortal. We cannot let it come to pass._

Dean glanced at Castiel. "He says that you guys didn't do your job. Any clue as to what that means?"

Castiel stared at him. "No. What does he mean?"

The dragon's eyelids lowered. _What was thought of in Heaven should have remained in Heaven._

"He says that what was thought of in Heaven should have remained in Heaven."

"I don't understand." Castiel looked from Dean to the dragon. "Something was lost from Heaven?"

_Just so._

"Yeah, apparently."

"What?"

The dragon sniffed and turned away. Dean caught a muttered fragment about the unreliability of angels and decided that Cas didn't need to get into a pissing match with the dragon either. He looked at the angel and shrugged. The prophecy was bothering him more at the moment than what Heaven might have misplaced.

"Are you the dragon in the prophecy?"

_Yes._

"And how, exactly, am I supposed to turn into you?"

Amusement_. You will not become a dragon, Corival. But we will fight the angel together._

"What does that mean?"

_When it is time, you will understand._

"I don't need more goddamned mystery. I need answers." Dean stood up, scowling at the creature. "I'm done with being jerked around."

_You wouldn't understand the answers now._

"Try me."

_No. _

Shock. Pain.

The dragon lifted his foot abruptly and Alis rolled out fast from under it, her sword point coated in a blue liquid, and held out, as she backed away from the creature.

"Looks like your position of strength isn't quite what you thought, either." Dean moved forward, stepping in front of Alis as she passed him. "You've been trapped here for a long time."

…

"How did a mage, even a big time operator like Cesare manage to trap a dragon?"

…

Reluctance._ I was looking for something._

"What?"

Annoyance.

The dragon's tail slithered across the stone, the tip twitching.

"We can just leave you in here." Dean shrugged, turning away.

_For a sword._ The dragon exhaled gustily, its warm breath blowing over the back of Dean's neck, ruffling his hair. _I was looking for the sword of the prophecy._

"Did you find it?"

_Yes. And no. _

"That's as clear as mud. Which is it?"

_I found it. It was stolen from me a short time later._

"Huh." Dean shook his head, wondering at the suicidal impulses of someone who would steal from a dragon. "So how are we supposed to kill Lucifer without it?"

_I know where it is. Free me._

Dean looked around at the mists surrounding the circle. He didn't feel entirely comfortable with the dragon being let loose, even if he needed him. "I don't know how to break this circle."

_In the tower, there is a circle. It controls the others. Cut it with the silver knife the woman carries in her boot. It will break all the circles._

"Yeah, well, we haven't had much luck getting to the tower." Dean glanced in the direction he'd last seen it. There was nothing to be seen there now.

_Wake the troll. He will take you to the tower._

He spun around, remembering the size of the tracks in the valley that Lev had told were troll tracks. Maybe not as big as ogres, he thought but still big enough to be a pain. He watched the mists draw back a little further, but there was nothing but rock and dead trees and bare soil in sight. "What troll?"

_That troll._ The dragon looked pointedly at a pile of rock in plain view.

Dean lifted an eyebrow and walked slowly to the pile, unsheathing his sword. He glanced around involuntarily, unable to shake the feeling, deep down, that none of this was really real, a part of his mind still occupied with looking for hidden cameras, the zippers in the costumes. He stretched out his arm and prodded the rock with the sword tip.

"Sonofabitch." He jumped back as the rock moved.

What had looked like a random pile of grey boulders unfolded and stretched, the creased grey skin and heavy, sloping shoulders rising, slab chest over a round, sagging stomach, thick, stumpy legs stretching out. Dark eyes opened, set deep under the slab brow, as the monster straightened and stood up, glancing first at the dragon, and then down to the man in front of him.

"Dinner? Fáfnir, my thanks. There's enough for both of us."

Dean backed away slowly, looking back at the dragon. "Uh …"

_Not dinner, Rekvit. Take the man to the tower. He will cut the circle._

Dean looked back at the disappointment on the troll's face, which still resembled stone more than flesh. The troll sighed deeply. He looked around and saw Castiel and Alis, his expression brightening slightly, wide loose lips pulling back from tombstone-like crooked teeth.

"What about them?"

_No._

Dean was relieved to hear that the dragon was being clear on the matter. He followed the troll cautiously out of the circle, far enough behind to be out of range of the long, heavy arms, and through the mists, Castiel and Alis close behind him.

The tower appeared again, in the same position it had been. This time it stayed visible as they approached, and the troll stopped by the large gate, gesturing inside. Dean looked into the darkness, glancing back at the creature beside him.

"After you."

"I don't go in there." It looked down at him, the loose mouth spreading in a smile. "Nothing good in there."

He closed his eyes briefly, wondering if the dragon would take it personally if he shot it. Probably, he thought, turning and walking inside, not that he knew where to aim, where the creature's weak spots were.

Castiel and Alis were behind him. The darkness gave way before them, as their eyes adjusted to it. The gate tunnel was only a few yards long, the cut stone blocks even but slick, water trickling along the stone and in some places rising through the cracks between the stones of the floor, small springs that added to the miasma of dampness.

"How long ago did Cesare leave here?"

"Within the last thirty years, I believe." Castiel thought of Vasiliĭ's tale.

"Looks longer." He skirted a wide pool of water and pushed open the door at the end. The courtyard was large and paved, but the paving stones had lifted and tilted and were thick with moss.

"There." Alis pointed at another doorway, high and wide set into the side of the lowest level of the tower.

They crossed the open space, swords drawn, the eerie silence inside the fortress pressing against their ears, as though they walked through a vacuum. Dean walked to one side of the door, looking at the ground, looking along the walls, the prickling at the back of his neck warning him that the mage had left more than the circles and monsters to kill or trap the unwary.

He stepped back after a moment, and picked up one of the loose paving stones, throwing it in a gentle underarm curve at the door. The stone crawled and crackled with electricity as it passed through some sort of field surrounding the door, shattering into a dozen pieces when it struck the timber.

"We might want to find another way in," he remarked to no one in particular, turning to look around the courtyard. There were no other doors, but fifteen feet up the tower wall a small square window seemed a reasonable alternative point of access. If they could get up there.

Fifteen minutes later he was wondering if this was the best idea he could've come up with. He stood with his back against the stone wall, Castiel's boots on his shoulders, and Alis climbing slowly up the angel, their combined weight pressing the metal links of the hauberk through the woollen surcoat and shirt and into his skin.

"Do we wait for her to come down this way?" Castiel looked down at Dean.

"Yeah, you don't expect her to jump, do you?"

They both turned their heads at the sound of a door opening, along the wall from where they stood. Alis stood in the doorway that hadn't been there a minute ago.

"Come on, there are a lot of doors here, visible from the inside but not from the outside."

Dean eased down the wall and the angel jumped off his shoulders, the relief from the weight instant.

"Hold me down," he muttered as they walked to the doorway, passing into the tower. The door closed behind them, and the wall was again unbroken, seamless.

"I think the circle will be on the top level." Alis said softly, pointing to the spiral wooden staircase that wound around the inner walls of the circular tower.

At the top, the tower was empty, the bare wooden floor warping slightly with the moisture in the building, no sign of a circle, or anything else. Dean frowned as he walked back and forth across the boards.

"It's here." Castiel's eyes were closed, his hands spread out slightly, palms down. "You can't see it, but I can feel the energy rising."

Alis drew her silver knife from her boot, moving toward the angel.

"Wait a minute." Dean looked at her. "Are we sure about this? Letting a dragon out?"

"The dragon said that he had to help you defeat Lucifer, didn't he?"

"Yeah but he could have been lying, just to get out." Dean looked at Castiel. "He wasn't exactly forthcoming with the details."

"The prophecy talks about a dragon fighting Lucifer, Dean. And the dragons saw his rising first," Castiel pointed out.

"According to this dragon," Dean countered. "And you don't think that's a bit convenient?"

Alis heard her mother's voice in her mind again. _"Remember that gratitude sometimes is a greater lever than fear. That everything you give out will be returned to you, greater than the original gift."_ Keeping the dragon trapped here would not help at all. Even if it were lying about destroying the angel.

"It's a risk either way, Dean. But not believing it is a greater risk, to everything, than believing it." She raised the knife, bringing it down sharply next to Castiel. The circle, which had been invisible, burst into flame, a clean white fire racing around the circumference and then vanishing as it reached the point where she'd made the cut.

Dean looked down at the floor unhappily. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Kiya led her horse down the long slope toward the river, the rough travois the horse pulled jumping and twisting a little over the churned up ground. The men lay tied securely to the stretcher, their bodies still covered with the dust and blood from the rock fall, their faces cleaned enough for them to breathe easily, swallow. The jessamine would keep them unconscious for another few hours, she thought, enough time to get them into the village.

Elbek's leg had been crushed, his pelvis was fractured if not broken, several ribs were broken but there was no blood in his mouth or nose. Sergei had a broken leg and arm, broken ribs and possibly his skull had been cracked. Miraculously both had been breathing without difficulty when she'd found them. She pushed away the memories of digging them out, getting them down off the rock fall, making the travois and closing the open wounds she could. She knew that she might have made things worse by doing it herself. It didn't matter, not now. She needed Valenis now. As soon as she reached the village she would send Dmitri to Deep Ice, to bring the healer.

She splashed through the shallow river over the ford, looking back to check that the water hadn't reached the men. Only a little way further, she told herself. Just a little way now.

* * *

Sam lay still, his eyes closed, listening, reaching out with his senses. He was no longer outside. He felt the softness of furs under him. He could smell stone and wool and sulphur. The air was warm, really warm. He opened his eyes.

He lay on a wide bed, raised slightly from the floor, the furs whispering as he rolled onto his side to look around. The room was curved, more of a cave than a room, he thought, although the thick timber door set into the wall suggested otherwise. Along with the bed, there was a low table, with a basin and some kind of jug sitting in it, a chest and two large woven baskets, and what might have been a garderobe in one corner, a round half-barrel with a lid. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor, smooth stone blocks laid over the rock of the cave. Under his bare feet, the stone was warm.

He was inside the volcano.

The chains were gone, his wrists had been cleaned and wrapped lightly around with a soft, loose-weave cloth. He looked at the door, guessing that it would be locked but standing anyway and going to try it. The hinges were recessed into the frame or the door, and he couldn't tell if it opened inward or outward but in either direction it was unmoving.

He looked around the room again. Four star accommodation, pre-biblical days. His clothing had been folded and put on the chest, including the light armour but missing his sword belt and the knife in his boot.

Samyaza had slipped him a mickey and he'd never even thought about that possibility. He wondered how long he'd been out, running a hand over his jaw. It was smooth and clean shaven, for the first time in months. He'd been washed as well, he realised, brow creasing as he tried to work out the significance of that. Lucifer didn't want to come through a travel-grimed body?

The jug on the table held water. Presumably the bowl under it was for washing in. His stomach growled softly. He heard a noise at the door, and turned around, walking behind the table as the door opened. Inward, he thought, the hinges on the right. He filed the information away. It wasn't particularly useful now but it might be.

The man who walked into the room was dark. Black hair, long and brushed back from a swarthy face, a face that had few lines, deepset dark brown eyes looking at him from under hooded lids, thick dark brows and a wide mouth, the fleshy lips framed by a closely trimmed black beard. He was no more than five foot ten inches, Sam thought, gauging his height against the height of the door. But the broad shoulders and barrel chest looked heavy, and the thick muscles of the forearms were patterned with the scars he knew came from regular use of a sword. _Cesare_.

The mage smiled at him. "Sam. It is a pleasure to meet you finally in person."

Sam folded his arms across his chest and stared back at him. "I can't say that I feel the same way."

Cesare's smile broadened. "No. I do not suppose you do." He looked around the room. "You are comfortable here? We have some time to wait until the ritual can be completed."

"Did you get any answers to your questions to Lucifer?"

The smile faltered a little. "My lord will reveal all to me when he has come through."

"Yeah. I bet." Sam's mouth quirked to one side. "I've seen a lot of witches who worshipped the devil, Cesare. They all came to a bad end as soon as they met him."

Cesare's brow lifted. "Perhaps I will be the exception that proves the rule, Sam. You can try to scare me with your stories of fallen angels and rebellions in the realms of the gods, but look at me, Sam. I was born six hundred and forty six years ago, the third living child of a family so poor we had no home, no house. Does it seem like I have been double-crossed by him?"

Sam shrugged, turning away.

"It might interest you to know that the Corival is now at my fortress." Cesare said from behind him. He stopped and turned slowly back.

"Oh yes, I know that your brother, Dean, is the Corival. One of the Watchers gave that secret away to my servant." Cesare's eyes narrowed as he studied Sam's face, looking for the reactions that would give away his feelings. "I've sent a few demons along to retrieve his body."

"If he's dead then you can't use him." Sam forced the words out, distancing himself from them, as if they meant nothing.

"On the contrary. It makes no difference. I do not need his flesh, only his soul."

Sam stared at him. Cesare shook his head slightly, smiling again.

"There is a lot you do not know, Sam." He turned at the soft knock on the door. "Come."

The door was pushed open and Samyaza entered, carrying a plain wooden tray filled with bowls of food, a jug of water and another of wine. He walked past Cesare and Sam to the table, setting the tray down and leaving the room without looking at either of them.

"Eat. There will be time to answer all your questions, I think. It's been a long time since I have company with the potential to understand what I have done." The mage gestured expansively at the table and walked from the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Sam heard the rattle of the bolts as they closed on the outside of the door.

He walked to the table, and looked down at the food. Was there any point to the mage drugging or poisoning him at this stage? He didn't think so. His stomach growled again and saliva rushed to fill his mouth at the scents that rose from the bowls. He sat down and started to eat, his thoughts already circling around the information that the mage had given him.

Didn't the soul leave the body as soon as it was dead? How could Cesare take a soul after death? He pushed away the thought of his brother's death. It was another lie. He would know it, he would feel it if Dean died. He knew he would.

* * *

Ruane lay along the branch of the tree, hidden by the needles, watching the open fields where the army had camped. She was closer than any of the other scouts had been, hoping that Kokabiel would be too busy to notice her, hoping that the Scythians had checked the woods when they'd made camp and would not bother to check them again.

Of all of them, she'd been the most accurate and had achieved the greatest distance with the cane. Torgva and Penemue had both argued against her doing this. Valenis had support her, the healer's pragmatic counters brushing aside all others. Over her shoulder the small quiver of boiled leather held a dozen darts, each one sticky with the concentrated syrup Valenis had made from jessamine. The darts were tiny, less than inch long, flaring along the length so that they didn't need to make fletching for them. All she had to do was not to miss.

The healer had not been able to see Sam, or Dean, Castiel and Alis, for several days now. Valenis had told her that it did not mean they were dead, the water had shown confused images, fragments, of surroundings that made no sense, but that she thought were connected to those she looking for. The interference could have come from the mage's spells, or from natural means. The water did not always show what was sought, and sometimes lied, showing the past or the future instead of the present.

She rested her forehead against her arm, taking a deep breath. There was no reason for the mage to kill Sam. Cesare needed Sam. She just had to remember that.

A shout in the camp refocussed her attention, and she lifted her head slowly, seeing the horsemen gathering, mounting and lifting their bows. A group of men was riding up the road, led by the golden-haired Watcher. Her eyes narrowed as they drew closer, and she lifted the long cane, fingers tightening around the end closest to her.

The Watcher was armoured, bright chainmail with a thick cuirass of leather and sheet metal over it, his arms protected down to the grieves and gauntlets that covered his forearms and hands. His neck was clear, she saw, the high stiffened collar of leather reaching only halfway to the jaw.

Her world narrowed as Kokabiel drew rein and dismounted in the centre of the field, less than a hundred yards from her position. The Watcher handed the reins of his horse to a soldier, turning, the long gold hair over his shoulders and back.

She adjusted her aim for the light breeze that blew down the valley, for the distance, for the precise point where the dart would have to hit, took a deep breath and closed her lips around the end of the cane. Her exhale was sharp, an explosion of air compressed into the cane, and the dart flew out, tiny and unnoticed.

Kokabiel lifted his hand suddenly, brushing in irritation at the side of his neck, knocking the small projectile free from the tangle of hair. Ruane held her breath, as the Watcher moved toward his tent, his stride long and confident. She saw him stumble slightly halfway to the shelter, shake his head slightly, and continue. He was almost to the open doorway of the tent when he staggered sideways, his hand gripping the shoulder of the Scythian beside him.

It was working, she thought, relief flooding her. The jessamine distillate was strong, the Watcher would be unconscious for hours now. Free of the mage's control. Her part was done.

* * *

The mist had gone, the valley lit by the dying light of the setting sun. It seemed bright after so long in the dim murk of the fog. The dragon met them outside the gate tunnel. The troll had disappeared and Dean felt a momentary regret that he hadn't popped the monster when he'd had the chance.

_Cesare knows now that you are the Corival. There are demons coming._

"Awesome." He looked at the dragon warily. "Where the hell is Cesare, anyway?"

_On an island, to the north west in the sea of darkness._

"An island?" Dean scowled. "How are we supposed to get to an island? Fly?"

He looked at the dragon's wings consideringly. "Can you take us there?"

_No. I've been here too long. I have no strength now, not enough for that flight, carrying you. I need to hunt, need to eat._

The dragon lifted its head and looked at the ridge to the north.

_The coast is not far. You will find a man there, with a boat. His name is Sae-Ulfr. He will take you to the island._

"Define 'not far'." Dean looked into the silver eyes sourly. "We're on foot, remember."

_There is time._

"Yeah, everyone keeps saying that." He shook his head. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

_You will. When it is time, you will know. And I will be with you._

"You know what? That doesn't make me feel better," he muttered.

Amusement. _It is better not to know all the details of one's Fate, Corival. It prevents the ability to act on the circumstances of the moment._

Dean turned away. He was sick of being fed ambiguities and half-truths. He was sick of struggling to find a way to save the world. He looked back at the dragon.

"Why me? Why us?"

_I don't know. Perhaps your soul is different from others._

"I'm no different from anyone else. I bleed. I hurt." _I despair_, he thought.

_You must be, Corival, or you would not have been chosen. But I do not know why. _

The dragon crouched on its haunches, the wings unfolding, shaking out.

_I will see you when the angel rises, Corival._

It sprang into the air, and Dean turned away from the fierce wind of the first downstroke of the massive wings. Castiel and Alis stood a few feet, watching the dragon climb into the sky, circling above them once, then flying east.

Castiel looked at Dean. "I take it from your dissatisfied expression that you did not get the answers you seek?"

Dean looked at him, mouth twisting in a disparaging half-smile. "When do I ever get answers? Even from you?"

"Where are we going?" Alis slid her sword back into the scabbard.

"North west. To the coast." Dean exhaled. "There's a man waiting for us with a boat."

They climbed out of the valley, and walked for two hours, before the darkness forced them to camp.

Dean sat with his back to a tree, staring at the small fire. At least he knew he wasn't going to have to turn into a dragon, he thought. Although it didn't make the prophecy or what he was going to have to do any clearer, or any more doable.

He looked around their small camp. Alis was sleeping, rolled into her cloak, her back to the fire. Cas sat a couple of feet away, staring into fire, lost in his own thoughts. He brought his attention back to the problems at hand. Demons coming. That would be fun. How had the sorcerer found out that he was the Corival? A slip up in protocol somewhere?

"Cas? How do you think Cesare found out that I'm the one he's looking for?"

The angel looked up slowly. "Hmmm?"

"The mage? Cesare? How'd he know that it was me?"

Castiel shrugged. "I don't know. Something he heard, perhaps, from Armârôs or Kokabiel."

Dean looked at him curiously. "What were you thinking about?"

"Uh … nothing." The angel looked away.

"Come on, it wasn't nothing." The corner of his mouth tucked in a little as he realised that the angel was … embarrassed.

Castiel looked at him. "I was thinking of Guin."

"Wow. That bug really bit hard, eh?"

"Apparently so." He looked back at the fire. "I think of her a lot, when it's quiet like this."

Dean's mouth lifted at one corner. "It's okay to feel, Cas. You don't have to be the hundred percent steel warrior of the Lord all the time."

Castiel was silent.

"Do you feel this way about Alis?" Castiel's question was blunt, as usual.

He glanced at him, shrugging slightly. "I don't know what's going on with that."

"I saw her kiss you, in the marsh, before the light failed." Castiel looked at him, recognising his friend's discomfort, and seeing, behind that, some other emotion, some other feeling that Dean was trying not to acknowledge. "That means she likes you, doesn't it?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, not always, Cas." He looked over at him. "That wasn't … I don't think she did that because … it's different, okay?"

"Why?"

It was a good question, he thought. Why was it so difficult between them? Why was it easy when they were hunting or fighting or travelling, but impossible if they caught each other's eye, or were sitting too close, or had to touch each other? Why was that?

"Uh, I don't know." He shrugged, hoping the angel would leave it at that.

"You like her?" Castiel didn't take the hint. "You have feelings for her?"

Dean looked at the fire. He did, he guessed, although he didn't know what they were. They weren't quite like any feelings he'd had for a woman before. Parts of them were, mostly the physical parts. But he wasn't sure about the rest.

"You want to have sex with her?"

He shifted uncomfortably against the tree, looking at the still figure sleeping less than six feet away. "Uh, that's not really … it's not just –"

"I've seen you watch her, Dean. When she is not looking at you." The angel leaned forward slightly. "She does the same thing. Looks at you when you are looking somewhere else."

That surprised him. "Oh."

"What does it mean?" Castiel stared at him.

He looked down. "I don't know."

"You should try and resolve this, Dean. It's not affecting your attention yet, or hers, but it probably will. We don't have much tolerance for mistakes, in what we have to do."

He looked at angel, thinking that Cas was right, sooner or later the growing tension would create problems, but unable to think of any way to defuse the situation. It wasn't like he could just talk to her about it.

He cleared his throat. "What could Heaven have lost that would help Lucifer rise, Cas?"

Castiel shook his head. "I don't know. Some ancient lore, perhaps. Nothing … physical."

"Do you think this is why the angels are ignoring you, ignoring us?"

Castiel sighed. "Yes, Dean. I think it probably is."


	41. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

* * *

Sam looked at the mage. Cesare sat at the other end of the table, pouring wine from the delicately made glass flask into his cup. He was excited, Sam thought, to have someone to tell his schemes to, someone to admire his work and the effort that had gone into it. Cesare had been expansive, garrulous almost, through the evening, considering perhaps that now Sam was here, imprisoned, he could dispense with caution and indulge himself in having a captive audience, one with the wit to understand his achievements.

He shook his head as the mage offered the flask to him. The wine was spiced and strong, and he wanted to pick and choose his questions, wanted to know the details of what would happen when the Sun and Moon aligned.

"My Lord has no memory of you, Sam. He tells me you are lying about everything."

Sam looked at him. "You spoke to the Fates, Cesare. Do you think they were lying too?"

The mage looked away. "It is certainly possible that they are. They are not content to be constrained."

"Lucifer will tell you what you want to hear. He will try to soothe your doubts. That's what he does. Puts the best possible spin on things, even when he's telling the truth."

"Spin?" Cesare glanced back to him, sipping his wine. "Why were you chosen as his vessel?"

"I don't know," Sam answered warily. "Lucifer told me that it was always me. From the beginning of time, but he didn't elaborate on why. I don't think he knew himself."

_And I don't think it was so written since the beginning of time either_, he thought. Maybe since this time. But he was becoming more and more sure that this juncture in the lines was what had forced the future to follow the path it had. Did that mean that they failed to stop him now? It couldn't because there wouldn't be any humans living if they had. Or did it just mean that the mechanics of destiny had a lot of backup and redundancy plans?

"The doorway is not the same thing, you know." Cesare looked into his cup, swirling the wine around in it. "He only needs to pass through your soul, to cleanse himself in the blood of the Lamb."

"He told you that?" Sam leaned forward. Christ wouldn't be born for another three hundred and twenty two years. How did Lucifer know of him or what the crucifixion had meant?

"He said that. Those exact words." Cesare raised his eyes, the glint returning to them as he took in the interest in Sam's face. "That means something to you? Tell me, tell me what it means."

"In another couple of hundred years, a man will be born, who will be the son of God." He hesitated, wondering if the mage could use this information. "He is sacrificed for all humanity and he is known as the Lamb, who will become the Lion. His blood …," he stopped, _his blood would wash all the sins of man clean and give entrance to Heaven_. That's what the angel wanted. A back door to Heaven. A way back in. Could it possibly work for the angel? He was pretty sure that sincere repentance was a part of that magic formula.

That was why he was the doorway, born after Christ's sacrifice.

"His blood …?" Cesare watched the expressions flashing across Sam's face. "What about his blood?"

"He died willingly so that all men could be free of sin," Sam said distractedly. His soul might have had the possibility for redemption, he thought, but without asking for forgiveness, it was pretty stained. How had the angel known about Christ anyway?

"When did Lucifer first speak to you?" He turned and looked at the mage. Cesare leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Four hundred years ago. I had made contact with him before that, but he began to speak to me when I told him of a spell that could release him."

"That must have been a difficult spell to find, Cesare. How long were you searching for it?"

"I had no idea such a spell existed." Cesare picked up his cup again. "A demon came to me, in a dream, and whispered in my ear that the Fates could be bound, that the Lord of the Underworld could be raised."

"A demon?" Sam's brow creased slightly. "An ordinary demon?"

"Not an ordinary demon, no." The mage smiled. "I was in the east at the time, looking for a way to open a gateway to the underworld. I had been summoning demons for weeks, with no success. Then this demon came, without a summoning, without a spell. The demon who came to my dreams had yellow eyes, as bright as the flames of a fire."

_Azazel_. Not an ordinary demon. And the spell had not come from Hell, but probably from Heaven.

* * *

It had started to snow as they'd broken camp, and the flurries continued all day. The taiga was shrouded in white, and their footsteps squeaked over the powder as they walked, steadily north west, through the open forest of larch, spruce and pine. Overhead, the cloud was low, the light silvery as it occasionally broke through, shadows were pale or non-existent and the wind was very light.

They saw elk from time to time, moving south, and wolf. And once, a large wolverine crossed their path where the land began to rise gently, its heavy body low to the ground, the black and amber coat thick, the protruding long claws leaving a distinctive track in the snow. Bigger than at home, Dean thought, watching the animal pass into the forest ahead of them. A lot bigger.

"Have you looked for the village, in the water?" He turned to look at Alis.

"No. Not since I saw the army come through the Throat." She looked into the forest, away from him. "I don't think I'm strong enough to be able to tell if the water is showing the truth, or lies."

"Probably better not to know too much about what's happening back there," he said, wondering how true that was. "There's nothing we can do about it now."

She nodded. "Yes."

"Is there anyone you're worried about? Especially?" he asked casually.

"My family, my friends." She glanced at him curiously. "Do you want me to look for Kiya?"

He stared at her for a moment, the question taking him by surprise. "No. No, she's … no."

She looked away. "Why did you ask to be released from your promise?"

He felt his pulse accelerate slightly. "I didn't ask. Your mother asked me if I wanted to be released."

"And why did you?" She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the trackless snow in front of them.

"Uh, it was a mistake." He decided to go with the easiest explanation. "I didn't realise what I was doing."

She looked at him then, one eyebrow raised. "You stayed together for a while after Vasiliĭ offered to dissolve it."

"Yeah. Another mistake." He shook his head, then looked at her thoughtfully. "I didn't think you were paying that much attention to what I was doing."

She was silent for a moment. "I wasn't. It's a small village."

Dean heard the faint note of defensiveness in her tone. "Is that why you were all over Lev, whenever I was around?"

He saw a trace of red rising up her cheeks. _Bullseye_.

"Where you were had nothing to do with it."

"Sure. Course not." He wasn't sure what he was doing, the words coming out more or less by themselves. "Lev was pretty surprised when you dumped him, after all that."

"You thought I was trying to make you jealous, Dean?"

His pulse jumped again at the direct question. "It looked that way."

"Because that is what you felt?" She slid a sidelong glance at him, and he realised that it didn't matter which way he answered that, she already knew that he had. He walked on, without answering.

* * *

"We need a diversion." Penemue looked at the soldiers. They'd been waiting for an opportunity to get into the tent for two hours. They couldn't afford to wait much longer. "Just a small one."

Armârôs nodded. "I will see what I can do."

He moved backward through the reed bed, into the freezing water of the river, and made his way slowly downstream. A fire would probably work, he thought, about a mile south of the camp. Something smoky and … loud.

Penemue's head snapped up when he heard the sharp cracks echoing between the ridge walls to the south, randomly one after the other, then a number together. He looked around, seeing a thick column of black smoke rising beyond the bend of the valley.

The Scythians were scrambling for their horses, throwing on saddles and bridles, leaping onto the animals and charging down the southern road at full gallop. He smiled in admiration, watching the camp clear out.

He slithered down the short wooded slope to the field behind the tent, his gaze scanning the surrounding area for anyone who might have remained on guard. It was empty. The rear of the tent lay a few feet from the gentle incline, and he lifted the cloth cautiously, peering underneath.

The tent was large, the ground covered by thick rugs, a table to one side, and a wide, fur-covered bed to the other. Kokabiel lay on the bed. He was alone.

The Watcher felt his heart stop at the soft rustle of grass by his side. Armârôs' green eyes crinkled slightly beside him. They slipped beneath the cloth wall, and got to their feet, moving silently over the soft rugs to the bed.

"I'll hold him down, you get the needle." Armârôs leaned over the sleeping Watcher. Penemue nodded. The jessamine should still be potent, he thought, but it wasn't certain. Nothing was ever certain.

Armârôs lowered his hands, fingers closing around the wrists of the fallen angel, and Penemue moved his head, tilting it to one side as he felt for the round bead at the nape of the neck. He felt it as he heard the sharply indrawn breath, his fingers tightening around it as Kokabiel began to struggle and thrash against Armârôs' grip.

He thrust down on the side of the demon master's head with all his weight as the needle began to pull free. Kokabiel's eyes rolled around to stare at him, and he saw the deep red tint against the amber irises. He felt a charge growing in the room, the bitter, acrid scent of ozone rising from the held man as if a storm was brewing inside of him, and yanked the needle free, dropping it as it burned in his fingers, the crystal shattering.

The reddish hue vanished from Kokabiel's eyes. The scent of a storm vanished as well, leaving only a faint aftertaste in the air. Penemue raised his gaze, meeting Armârôs' as the Watcher fell limp under their hands.

"How do we get him out of here?" Armârôs looked down.

Penemue shook his head. "We don't. We'll have to stay until he awakens naturally. He's the only one who can destroy the army. And Yuri said that the soldiers don't disturb the tent when the mage is absent."

He straightened up, looking at his brother. "So what was all the noise?"

"Ah … yes. River rocks, in a nice hot fire. Cracked and shattered them."

Penemue smiled, nodding. "It sounded like nothing on earth from here."

* * *

They lay, side by side on Alis' bearskin, in the thin snow under the lowest branches of the stand of spruce, watching the open white plain that lay in front of them. For over an hour, nothing had moved, but both kept their eyes on it anyway.

"Guy was a dick," Dean said softly. Alis smiled slightly at the description.

"Yes."

"Anyone go after him?"

"No. I …," she hesitated. "My father wanted to. I told him not to."

"Why?" He glanced at her, a feeling of outrage in his chest, on her behalf.

She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the shock, and the humiliation … and the heartrending pain of that day. "It was … how would you react if you gave your heart to someone and they threw it back at you?"

Dean exhaled quietly. He knew how that felt. And he'd reacted pretty much the same way Alis had. Disconnecting. Closing down. Pretending the pain hadn't happened. Promising himself to never be that vulnerable to anyone else again.

"I told myself it was for the best, and I promised myself I wouldn't get close to anyone again," he said.

Alis looked at him in surprise, noting the words, hearing the faint thread of pain that edged his voice.

He saw her look from the corner of his eye. "Doesn't work, you know. Not really. Not forever." _Not without a lot of booze, a lot of faces that he had no names for, a lot of regret._

She looked back at the white plain. "It has so far."

"Why are you afraid of me?" He kept his gaze on the snowfield, swallowing the astonishment that the question had come out of his mouth.

Alis' gaze was fixed, staring in front of her. The silence drew out.

* * *

Azazel. Fallen angel and once a Watcher. Sent to Hell for his crimes and tortured by Lucifer. Why didn't the demon just tell Lucifer without using the middle man? How many goddamned angles was Yellow Eyes working, anyway?

Sam paced up and down the room restlessly. He'd been in the room a week now, and felt as if he was slowly suffocating with the confinement of it.

Azazel had told Cesare the spell. Cesare had spent centuries finding the components and then telling Lucifer. Lucifer had given him the final piece he needed, where to find the heavenly children who could make the living sacrifice. Nephilim children, Cesare said. The Fates had accepted the sacrifice, then got leery of the idea of Lucifer returning to Earth – did they know the end game was for the angel to return to Heaven? _Did it matter?_ he asked himself angrily. The Fates had looked along the lines and seen that in every line, it was him, Dean and Castiel … the players who were always there. And they had found them, already in transit, and had pulled them back here.

The game may change, but the players stay the same, Cesare had said. He too had looked along the lines, forward and back.

Why them? Why always them? It couldn't just be the bloodlines of the Watchers. There had to be more. In their time, Heaven had decreed that John Winchester and Mary Campbell had to produce children. But if that line of destiny was a fall-over, something that only occurred because of what was happening now, then someone upstairs had been doing some pretty dodgy cobbling work. And if they succeeded now, it wouldn't have been needed.

He rubbed his hand impatiently over his face and through his hair. He was going to go nuts trying to make sense of this. If the spell had come from Heaven … that was a whole new can of worms. Who in Heaven could work a spell like that? Who would want to?

The archangels were the only ones with the juice and the knowledge. And he knew of at least two who wanted Lucifer back and in the game. Another possibility occurred to him, and he sat down on the bed slowly.

What if it was Cas who was the really important piece? The angel had doubted. He'd lost his power and been cut off from Heaven. He'd been resurrected after he and his vessel were destroyed by Raphael, and only God could have done that. Yet, he'd never fallen. Was that significant? It could be, if he could figure out how.

Maybe he and Dean were the sidekicks in this show, and Cas was the one who was the main player. Why didn't the prophecy mention him then? Unless … he was a catalyst. Was it destiny that it had been Castiel who'd raised Dean from Hell? Was it destiny that the angel had listened to his brother, listened to both of them, and been fundamentally changed in some way? Learned to think for himself. Learned to take responsibility.

Was it Cas who'd drawn God's attention to them?

* * *

The forest was changing, pine and larch becoming more prevalent, the birch and spruce disappearing. They had been climbing for two days now, and the rock broke through the thin soils frequently. Snow covered the land, cool whites and greys, pale mauve and blues, under the flat grey light that was all that the cloud cover let through.

Dean turned and extended his hand, pulling Alis up to the rock beside him, both of them waiting for the angel and pulling him up as well. Ahead, the gentle undulations rose more steeply, and the forest was dark under the dusting of white. The land seemed to be wrinkled and creased, pushed together and humping to ever higher hills.

"We're near the coast." Castiel turned his face to the wind, drawing in a deep breath, just able to discern the faintest hint of brine over the heavy scent of the forest. Dean looked past him, at the deep valleys and rising ridges in front of them, the way the snow was funnelled down the folds between them. The forest had been getting harder to walk through anyway, fallen branches, rotting underfoot, rocks protruding from between the trees, all hidden by the snow, and inviting a twisted ankle at best.

"This is going to take longer, we'll be going up and down more than forward."

Castiel nodded. "Many of these ridges join, along the primary ridge line." He pointed to the north, the ridge they stood on curved east and north, the secondary ridges sloping down and away from it. "We'll follow the primary, and then climb to the next one. It will be less protected, if a storm comes, but less tiring to traverse on foot."

The moon was half-full, shedding a clear silver light over the luminescent snow, and they kept walking until it set, making camp under the lee of the ridge, in a thick clump of conifers. The fire was small, enough to heat water and cook the remaining strips of elk, not enough to provide real warmth. Castiel had fallen asleep immediately.

Dean lay on his side, the heavy fur wrapped around him, a thick bed of pine needles under him for once without a single rock to dig into his ribs. Alis sat a couple of feet away, wrapped in her own cloak, her face lit by the flicker of the fire.

"At the time, it was … agonising," he said, his voice low. "I'd told her the truth, and she not only didn't believe me, she thought I was lying to get out of being with her. It didn't really occur to me until then, that we didn't know each other that well."

He looked at the flames, getting smaller and smaller, dancing over the already burned logs. "I saw her again, a while later. I still wanted what I thought we'd had. She was smarter, I think. She said that wasn't much hope."

"Do you still miss her?" Alis flicked a glance at him.

"I missed what I thought I'd had." He rolled onto his back, putting an arm behind his head. "Now, I don't think I ever really had it. And now, I'm not the same guy as I was then."

She drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her knees, the fur pulled all the way around her.

He waited, closing his eyes. There was no sense of urgency to these strange talks. Things came out slowly, sometimes only half-expressed. The silences in between were as important as what was said. He'd told her things he hadn't told anyone else. Things he hadn't even articulated very well to himself.

In the first few attempts, it had felt like walking through a minefield. Easy to step on something that would blow up and stop everything cold. It had gotten easier. He couldn't pinpoint when it had changed, but the tension had faded away. The defensiveness that had characterised almost all of their previous conversations had gone. There was trust, he thought, trust that neither one of them would use what they shared against the other. He sighed softly. He'd trusted Sam, time after time, with what he'd thought and what he'd felt. And had been slow to learn that he couldn't do that. Maybe they were too close. He could trust his brother with his life, but not with who he was, deep down inside. He wanted someone, just one person, to be able to trust with that.

"I am afraid of you," Alis said quietly. He looked at her, rolling back on his side.

"Because of what I feel," she added after a moment. "Elbek, Lev, the others … they wanted to have fun, to enjoy themselves. That was fine, until they wanted something more. And they both did, want more."

He wanted to tell her that he wouldn't have minded having fun, but he resisted that impulse to lighten the atmosphere, knowing there was more she needed to say, now while it was dark and quiet and the firelight enclosed them like a wall against the night.

"You were different," she said, feeling her way slowly for the words. "Even when you arrived … you were serious, as if you have lived for much longer than your years." She shook her head slightly, unable to tell him how it felt to look into his eyes and see what she had seen in them, or the way it had made her feel.

He thought of his life, everything that he'd done, that had happened, that he'd felt. He hadn't realised it had marked him out so clearly. He still had glimpses, memories, of himself that were so like the young hunters, fearless, reckless, everything a prize to win, a way to test himself.

"At first, it just seemed like you were a dangerous person to know too closely. I didn't know why. I just knew that it would be better to keep a distance. There is a saying, in the mountains, about love … it can be warming to sit by that fire, but one has to be careful not to get burned," she sighed. "By the time you were injured by the wyvern, I knew it was too late, although I couldn't admit it, even to myself."

He thought of the long-standing tension between them, the prickling animosity she'd shown when they'd had to spend too much time together. He hadn't wanted to admit that he'd felt vulnerable with her, that what she said, what she did, could hurt him, that her anger sparked an answering defensive anger, or that despite all that, he'd still been attracted to her.

"I thought it had hurt so much because I had been in love with Petyr." She kept her gaze on the fire.

He could feel a significance in what she'd said, but he didn't understand it.

She turned to look at him, their eyes meeting. And he knew what the significance was, recognition dawning slowly, but with a certainty that held his breath. In that same moment, he saw everything clearly, everything he'd felt, everything he'd struggled with whenever she'd come into his thoughts, everything he'd tried to bury or hide from, or just ignore … those things were now laid out precisely in his mind, the pattern obvious, the meaning unequivocal.

They sat, a couple of feet apart, wrapped in their cloaks, their faces shadowed in the dying firelight, a choice between them. The silence stretched out, filling the campsite, filling the ridgeline, filling the land and the night around them.

* * *

Kokabiel opened his eyes, turning his head to look around the interior of the tent. He felt heavy, as if he'd been drugged for a long time, and hungry and thirsty and tired. His eyes widened slightly as Penemue and Armârôs came into his field of vision.

"What happened?" He gestured at the tent. "Where are we?"

"Long story," Penemue said shortly. "You have been held prisoner for many months, Kokabiel."

"Cesare … he …," he frowned as images swam vaguely in his mind, disjointed, meaningless, frightening.

"Yes." Armârôs walked to his side, slipping an arm beneath his shoulders as he struggled to sit up. "If you feel anything like I did, you will be hungry, thirsty … we will tell you what we can."

"What I did do?" Kokabiel looked up at his brother. "I know it was something, terrible."

"You were trapped by the mage, Kokabiel. The blame doesn't rest on you."

"I must know." The amber eyes, long and narrow, moved from one face to the other.

Penemue glanced away, the exhale audible, and then back to Kokabiel. "Forty thousand demons were released from the gate to the east. They were bound into armies of the Scythian horse archers and commanded to march west, searching for a man who had to be killed, and killing everything else in their way."

He watched Kokabiel take in the words, the meanings, and his face pale.

"I released the demons. And bound them and commanded them?"

"You were trapped in a crystal needle by a mage who used your power, Kokabiel."

The Watcher shook his head. "It happened because of who I am, because of the power I hold."

Armârôs looked at him from the end of the bed. "If you lie unconscious and a man holds a knife in your hand, and kills someone with it, that is not your responsibility, Kokabiel, even though the hand is yours."

"Where are they? The demons?"

Penemue's mouth twisted up. "All around us. This is the camp of the army."

"Let me up. I have to make this right. Now."

* * *

"No, Lucifer needs no vessel to be reborn," Cesare said, shaking his head. "He will come through and manifest in his own form."

_A form that the Corival would kill after it came through?_ Dean wouldn't want to wait, Sam thought nervously. He wouldn't like the angel having any more advantage than what he –

Sam's gaze snapped back to Cesare as the mage leapt to his feet, his face transfigured by fury and disbelief, his hands clenched into fists so tight Sam could see the white of the knuckles pushing at the skin.

"NO!"

The mage ran to the door, throwing it open and disappearing through it.

Something sure got his attention, Sam thought, as Samyaza closed and locked the door behind him. One of the Watchers? Or his brother, not dead but very much alive, tripping some kind of alarm that the mage could feel? He should have told Cesare that his brother was impossible to kill.

He stood up, walking to the door. "Samyaza?"

He stepped back from the door as he heard the bolts being drawn. The Watcher had been more himself in the last few days, Cesare not needing much control in his own lair, Sam thought. He'd considered knocking Samyaza out, making a run for it, just getting out of mage's control. But where could he have hidden from Cesare on a thirty mile long island in the middle of the sea? It was still an option, he thought, when they got closer to the solstice. Even a few hours' hiding to derail that critical moment would work.

"What do you want, Sam?" The Watcher stood on the other side of the doorway.

"Can you spell the water? So I can see the village, the mountains?" Sam gestured to the bowl on the table.

Samyaza shook his head. "Not in here. The mountain's energy is too strong, it blocks the power to scry completely."

So Valenis couldn't see him either. He nodded and turned away, vaguely hearing the door shut again, the bolts pushed home. He tried not to think of the armies, pushing into the mountains. Tried not to think of war and bodies riven by arrows and the churned mud where the attackers had pressed against the walls. Tried hard not to think about the slender woman who was right in the middle of those two armies.

* * *

In the darkness of the mountainside, there was warmth and comfort. Between the thick furs, he could hear her breathing, smell the muskiness of her, taste the sweetness of her mouth, and feel the softness of her skin, the yielding of her flesh. His senses were heightened, his nerve endings humming, high voltage cables connecting every part of his body, and even the softest caress sent a surge of heat and desire shuddering through him.

No words were spoken between them, and the coverings muffled the noises they made involuntarily, leaving the angel to sleep peacefully on the other side of the camp. Engulfed in her incalescence, her velvet grip surrounding him, he shook as the familiar and curious combination of pressure and sensation built up, challenging his control, testing his strength, his breath rasping in his throat and the muscles contracting up his back as pleasure was drawn out. Somewhere, very close by, was the line where he would lose every vestige of restraint. The staccato ripple shocked him and he crossed the line without feeling it, her hips arching under him, as he arched up himself, and individual feeling was lost in the torrent that swept through them both.

In the darkness of the mountainside, there was warmth and comfort and peace, curled together in isolation from the past and the present and the future, their sleep deep and untainted.


	42. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

* * *

The small square room was warmed by a fire, burning in a wide hearth to one side, the sweet scent of cedar freshening the air.

Valenis lifted the dressings carefully, using a little warm water to soak them free of the blood that had leaked out and dried. Elbek lay still, feeling the tug against his skin as the cloth was lifted free, but no pain. The strong tea had taken that away completely.

Of all his injuries, it was only the pelvis she was worried about. The big bone was fractured in two places, broken through in one. It hadn't been crushed, as his right leg had almost been, but keeping the entire area still for long enough for the bones to fuse properly was going to be a problem. She sat back on her heels, considering the possibilities. Setting it was one solution, but one that brought a different set of problems with it, cleanliness being the most worrying one. Using a variation of the numbing plant over the area was another solution, although she wasn't sure that it was strong enough to stop involuntary movement of the muscles surrounding the bone. She could attempt to bind it in place. It had the advantage of being easily removable when needed. But it didn't hold the entire structure of the pelvis together tightly enough to ensure a clean mend.

She wished Penemue was back. He was a skilled healer and had helped her many times with difficult injuries.

Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at Kiya, seeing the young healer's anxious expression.

"It will heal, Kiya. You did a very good job under very difficult circumstances." She stood up, looking back down at Elbek. "I need to think of a way to hold the bones in place, for several weeks. It may be we need to use a number of different solutions. But it will heal straight."

Kiya smiled in relief, her eyes moving to Elbek's, as she came to the bed and cleaned the dried blood from his skin gently, covering the open wounds with unguent and laying clean dressings over them.

Valenis walked to the bed that Sergei lay in. The injuries on his body were all healing well, the breaks were clean and set properly. But he hadn't woken since Kiya had brought him back. She knelt by the side of the bed, laying her fingertips very lightly against the bone of the side of his skull, closing her eyes, feeling her senses spread out, sink into him.

The bone was fractured. The break wasn't bad and the edges were already beginning to fuse, but beyond the bone, there was heat, and swelling. She could almost see the blood vessels there, millions of them branching this way and that. She needed something to reach that swelling, to bring it down. Cold could do it, she knew. It would be a last resort, the immersion of the skull had to be done very carefully. There was a plant, that grew to the east, under the great mountain wall. She'd found it in the mountains here as well, smaller plants but equally powerful. The bright green leaves, seven lobed with finely serrated edges, were dried and ground, and she had several jars of the tinctures. Katya's store would also have them.

"Kiya, I need a tincture of sevenpoint for Sergei. There should be at least one jar here."

Kiya nodded, and left the room quickly, and Valenis turned back to Sergei.

"You will be fine, Sergei. We will bring down the swelling and you will wake again."

If the herb didn't reduce the swelling quickly enough, they would still be able to use the snow pack, she thought. Anything under pressure was in danger of permanent damage, and the skull did not allow for swelling.

* * *

The coastline lay spread out before them, a long serrated line of high peaks, covered in snow, separated by deep inlets, the waters still and mirroring the dark forests and white mountains that soared above them.

Dean looked down the line of the ridge they were on. It was the last one, falling less than a mile away to a broader valley, matching the image the dragon had left in his mind. He started walking again, the heavy overnight snowfall making the footing treacherous. I would kill for a pair of snowshoes, he thought vaguely, using the long staff he'd cut to check the snow ahead.

In spite of the bright sunshine, the air was frigid, and on the ridge, the wind blew constantly. The valley looked more protected and he moved as fast as he could, feeling for rock underfoot, hearing the squeak and click of Alis and Castiel following his footsteps, through the snow and over the rock.

As they descended the steep slope of the ridge, holding onto the tree trunks and branches where the ground was slippery with needles, or tangled with fallen limbs and rotting vegetation, he thought about how far they still had to go. Castiel said that there was only one island that matched the dragon's description. It lay almost six hundred miles out to sea. According to his watch, it was December 12. Eight days to get to the island. The sea and wind were so unpredictable, it could be plenty of time, or they could still be sitting somewhere in the middle of the ocean waiting for a wind long after the solstice.

He was still thinking about it when they reached the gentler slope of the valley floor, pushing out through the deeper snow, breaking the path, snow crusted over his boots and pants, clinging to the end of the thick fur cloak.

The shout came from the other end of the valley, and he looked up, slowing slightly.

Six horsemen were heading toward them. Light flashed from their mail, and from the snow crystals their horses' feet tossed into the air as they began to gallop. Dean stared at them for a moment, then looked around. They were in the middle of the open valley, no shelter, nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. He turned to Alis and Castiel.

"Back to back. Alis, any blood metal arrowheads left?"

"No." She strung her bow, and looped the quiver diagonally over her chest, the open end by her ribs, then drew her sword.

"They're demons." Castiel pulled his sword from the leather scabbard at his waist.

"No shit, Sherlock." Dean watched the horsemen approaching, his sword out and raised. If they started firing arrows at them, it would be the end. They had no shields, nothing to shelter behind but each other. If they want to tussle one on one, though, then he'd show them the power of his little brother's swords, from the inside out.

The Scythians pulled up a few yards away, forming a loose circle around them, eyes gleaming black across the sockets.

"I thought they were supposed to be dead."

"Obviously not, fool." The leader nudged his horse forward a couple of steps. "Prepared to sell your life dearly, are you?"

He lifted the short recurve bow from the case on his back, nocking an arrow onto the string and raising it to aim at Dean's chest. Dean stared at the arrowhead, foreshortened from his view, the trilobate flare looked big enough to punch a good sized hole through him.

The other riders lifted their bows, arrows aimed.

"It's a brave sentiment, but we don't fight fair." The demon smiled, pulling the string back to the point of his jaw.

* * *

Kokabiel walked out of the tent, onto the churned and muddy field. The demons stopped what they were doing, stiffening like statues. Behind the golden haired Watcher, Penemue and Armaros came out slowly, looking at the men standing around the field, or sitting on their horses, perfectly still, waiting.

Penemue knew what was about to happen, but even so the sight was shocking in its scale. Kokabiel stood there, head bowed, hands closed into fists by his sides, his eyes shut. For a long moment there was silence in the broad field. Then every man fell, their bodies arching and convulsing, lit up from within with a brilliant coruscation of red and gold light, outlining their skeletons and dying slowly as the vessels stilled.

* * *

Dean lifted his sword, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. He didn't know how fast the demons could draw and fire, but he was only going to get one chance to get under their fire and take out the leader, and he'd have to hope that the arrow pointed at him wouldn't kill him straight away. He pulled his gaze away from the head and narrowed his focus tightly on the Scythian's knuckles, looking for the first change in the skin over them to give him the time to move.

Behind and to either side of him, he could feel Alis and Castiel readying themselves to do the same thing. The one good thing about the Scythians being mounted was that their horses would block their aim for precious seconds, if they could get under them.

The six riders suddenly arched back, the arrows released into the air as their bodies stiffened and fell, shaking and seizing as they hit the ground. Dean watched in astonishment as all six bodies were filled with red-gold light, burning in the torsos and flickering down the limbs.

"What the –," He walked over to the leader warily, as the light faded from the body, and the man stopped twitching. The horses had shied from the mass deaths and milled uneasily a few yards further away.

"Someone seems to have ganked the demons, long distance." He looked at Castiel.

"Kokabiel." The angel walked to the body, lifting an arm with his foot. "The Watcher who controlled the larger army. Only he could control the demons, only he had the power to kill them all like this."

"What does that mean for our team?"

"I think it means that someone in the villages thought of a way to free the Watcher from the sorcerer's control." Castiel looked up at Dean. "It means that the armies are gone."

"That's good news."

"Very."

"What were these demons doing here? Looking for you?" Alis looked down at the body of the rider closest to her.

"My guess would be that the sorcerer felt the circles breaking. And he may have known that Dean was the Corival from the prophecy. He sent the demons to get your body."

"What good is my body?"

"He has Sam. He might have been looking for a way to motivate your brother." Castiel looked at the slope down to the water of the fjord. "We should keep going."

Dean turned to follow him, his thoughts churning at Castiel's last remark. "Yeah."

* * *

Sam woke slowly, rolling over in the nest of furs, his forehead wrinkled. The dreams that had been coming to him in the past week were chaotic and dark, he couldn't remember exactly what they were about, but the lingering sense of unease and the feeling that his sleep hadn't been restful was making him edgy.

He pushed the covering furs off and got up, pouring water into the bowl and splashing it over his face until the grogginess and lethargy were gone. Maybe it was just a lack of exercise, he thought, running his wet hands back through his hair. Too much time sitting in this room, his thoughts going around and around, unable to draw firm conclusions without more information.

He pulled on his clothes, turning as the door opened and Samyaza brought in food, the Watcher followed by Cesare. He sighed. The intel was good, but the company was getting hard to live with.

"You must be getting sick of sitting here, Sam." Cesare nodded to Samyaza, dismissing him. "Today I will show you what I have done. You can stretch your legs."

Sam sat next to the low table, looking at the food, struggling to keep any expression from his face. Was the mage serious? He needed to see the caves. Cesare had gone into a great deal of detail in his explanations of the ritual, but he needed to see the physical parameters, how the ritual would be laid out if he was going to come up with ways to circumvent it.

"I could use the exercise," he said, through a mouthful of bread. "And fresh air."

Cesare smiled slightly. "Then eat quickly, and we can be on our way."

* * *

To his surprise, the chains did not reappear when he stood. He followed Cesare out of the room into a narrow, twisting tunnel, the gradient descending gradually, the floors and walls only minimally smoothed to allow easier passage.

Everywhere warm air drifted in shifting currents, the smell of sulphur reeking in some areas, almost undetectable in others. He wiped at his eyes when they passed through a strong smelling pocket, relieved when it dissipated and the smell of fresh, salt-laden air blew into the tunnel from an opening in the volcano's cone.

Counting steps and memorising turnings, he was unprepared when they emerged into a vast cavern. He could barely make out the rough, domed ceiling of the cave, or the curving walls of the far side. The floor was black stone, smooth and polished, engraved with circles and designs across its surface, and reflecting the red light from the exposed magma pool that lay at the narrowest part of the cavern.

Even from this distance he could feel the edge of the ferocious heat of the pool, and as he stared at it, he could see something suspended over it, half-hidden by the twisting fumes of the gases leaking from the magma.

He walked closer, stopping abruptly when he saw what it was. Over the fiery rock, held by nothing he could see, were three clear oval containers. Each one contained a child's body, floating in a translucent blue liquid, eyes open but unseeing, the heat below creating movement in the liquid, the bodies turning slowly, a sickening parody of the movement of an unborn child in the womb. Shock hammered at him and he dragged in a deep breath, turning away, forcing his reactions down as he saw that Cesare was watching him closely.

"It is horrible, I know." The mage shrugged, and Sam saw that even the small attempt at a human emotion defeated the man. "This is what a quest for power does, Sam. It strips the soul bare of all the things that hold lesser men, lesser will, back."

"Why do you want to control Time, Cesare?" Sam looked at the floor for a moment. "You can't change the lines of destiny, even if you can move back."

"Back?" Cesare laughed. "Oh, I have no interest in what has been, Sam. Only in what will come."

He walked to the circles that lay, interlocked together, in a line with the cavern's massive opening.

"Your time or beyond that, a world of people who will be willing slaves in order to keep their entertainment, keep their comforts, who will deny evil when it stares them in the eye, and turn away, pretending to themselves that they were mistaken." He glanced at Sam, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "I have seen worlds where a single man can rule, Sam, and not ever need to do more than threaten."

Sam stared at him, the slow realisation of what the mage had foreseen sinking into his mind.

"Worlds that have gone so far beyond survival that they can no longer remember how they did." He turned back to Sam, seeing his expression. "Yes, now you can see the scope of it, can't you?"

Sam looked down the line of the circles, belatedly recognising that they lay along a straight east-west axis. For the eclipse, he thought. This is where he would gather the power of the conjunction and channel it. The circles were cut into the stone, and a single deep channel emerged from the end closest to him. It stopped, a few feet from the last circle, joining a smaller sigil. He looked at it, remembering the shape, remembering how he'd seen it in his dreams for months when the angel had been calling to him, looking for him.

He looked at Cesare, who was kneeling over the centre of the largest circles, setting something into the channel, and caught a movement in the corner of his eye. Turning slowly, he scanned the dimness of the cavern's walls. The flicker of movement was near the narrow doorway that led to the tunnel, in the cluster of shadows between the daylight spilling in from the cavern's exterior entrance, and the violent red glow of the pool of magma.

Keeping his eyes on the mage, he began to back toward the shadows slowly.

* * *

The gravelly beach was as the dragon shown him. In the centre, the boat had been drawn up on to the edge of the steeply sloping shoreline, a smaller, more rounded version of the longships that would become famous along this coastline in the future.

Dean, Castiel and Alis walked toward the ship, the small stones loud under their feet. The high prow of the ship had been carved into a detailed and elaborate likeness of a dragon's head and neck, sinuously curving down to the thick keel. Dean looked at the head and wondered how long it took a dragon to refuel. He shook off the thought as the plaintive sounds of a violin's strings filled the quiet inlet, echoing from the walls.

He exchanged a glance with Alis as they came around to the side of the ship, seeing the musician leaning against the gunwale, the instrument tucked under his jaw. Tall and lean, the man had long, fine blonde hair, and a close-cropped beard of a slightly darker shade. He looked up at them, letting the violin drop, wide, grey-green eyes watching them as they got closer.

"A passage?"

Castiel nodded. "An island, almost due west of here. With a mountain of fire on it."

"I'm Sae-Ulfr. I know the island you are looking for." He looked at Dean and Alis, his gaze lingering a moment on her. "How are you going to pay?"

Dean looked blankly at Castiel. "Uh …"

"Gold." Alis drew a small bag from under her cloak. "When we land."

Sae-Ulfr smiled at her. "As my lady wishes." He stepped from the rail, gesturing widely with his arm. "Come aboard. The tide turns in an hour. We can leave then."

They climbed over the high side, settling themselves inside the boat. Sae-Ulfr picked up his violin again and walked slowly to the bow, playing a melody that was both haunting and bright, the notes clear and sharp in the silence.

"Anyone else not feeling good about this?" Dean looked from Alis to Castiel. The angel shrugged.

"There isn't another choice, Dean. If the wind holds, we'll be there in six or seven days."

Dean looked at his watch. In seven days, it would be December 19. That should give them enough time to get Sam out, kill the mage, unbind the Fates, short-circuit whatever plans he had. Why did he feel like they were making a mistake, climbing into this tub, trusting the guy with their lives, and the future of the world?

* * *

The fjord was filled with deep shadows when Sae-Ulfr ran the long oar through the hole in the transom, and began to scull them through the deep water. Despite her weight, the boat moved easily, although watching him, Dean wondered about the weight of the oar, the size of a small sapling. He could see the Norseman twisting it, around and back and forth, the blade rippling the water behind them as it drove them along.

The stars were already out when they cleared the headlands. Moonrise would be another three hours, Castiel had said. Along the shore, he could see white patches dimly, and even out into the sea, there seemed to be areas of white, easy to pick out even in the faint light, against the black water.

"What are they?" He walked aft to Sae-Ulfr, pointing at one.

"Ice." The man turned his head to look. "Very rare, but there was an ice storm that came across the coast from Sabirs, days ago. It froze the sea from the coast out for a long distance. It's melting away slowly now, but it was the first time I had seen this sea frozen like that."

The same ice storm that had trapped them for two days, Dean thought.

"Did you see a ship leaving here, with, uh, a lot of men, one who was very tall?"

Sae-Ulfr looked back at him. "I saw Ásbjorn's ship leave just before the ice storm, with many men and one very tall man. The tall man was a prisoner, it seemed. He had chains on his wrists."

_Sam._

"Would the ice storm have reached them?" Castiel spoke softly beside him.

"Hard to say." Sae-Ulfr turned to look at the angel. "They left perhaps three or four days before it came, with a fine, following wind and smooth seas. They would have made good time, been well out from the shore." He looked back at the horizon. "I saw no green flashes in the days that followed the storm."

Dean looked at Castiel. "Green flashes?"

"Ægir shows he's taken the lives of men with green flashes on the horizon." Castiel cleared his throat. "According to local mythology."

The Norseman pulled in the sculling oar and went to the mast, releasing the broad sail from its ties around the yard as the wind freshened from the east. He angled the yard slightly, tying it off and watching the sail fill, the boat accelerating, and the noise of the water rushing under the hull.

Dean felt it lift slightly under his feet, settle into a steady motion as it cut through the crests and troughs instead of rising and falling over and into them. He saw Alis standing in front of the mast, close to the dragon figurehead of the prow and walked up the length of the ship, his balance adjusting for the movement.

She glanced over her shoulder at him as he climbed over the last forward thwart, coming up to stand behind her. "It feels like we are flying."

He looked at the sea ahead, miles and miles of nothing but water, and glanced behind them. Already the land seemed distant, a black jagged line against the black night sky.

"Yeah, well at least we can't crash," he said, glad that they weren't. She looked up at the edge in his voice.

"What is wrong?"

"Our, uh, captain," he gestured behind him, "says the ice storm came through here, a few days after he saw Sam sailing from the coast."

"Cesare would never have let anything happen to Sam," she said with certainty. "He needs him too much."

"Yeah."

"We must have caught up quite a lot, if Sam was here when the ice storm came," she said, looking back at the endless progression of waves in front of them.

"I guess." Dean moved closer behind her, hoping she was right, hoping that they had narrowed the gap. He couldn't think of what his brother was going through, as a prisoner of the mage. He held onto the thought that Cesare did need Sam. He couldn't kill him.

She turned to face him, her arms slipping under his cloak to circle his waist. "We have days of nothing to do but wait, Dean. Do not let your thoughts turn to thoughts of what might have happened. You will wear yourself out before we get there."

He looked down at her, knowing she was right, knowing it wouldn't help to run through all the what-ifs when there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

"We should eat." She looked into his eyes, seeing the worry there. "And rest. While we have the chance."

He nodded, turning with her as she walked back to the middle of the ship, where they'd left their supplies.

Eat and rest, he thought. It was good advice. It felt as if they had been travelling for years, and now there were only a few days more to wait. He pulled in a deep draught of the cold sea air, trying to loosen the tension in his chest, in his shoulders. Eat and rest.

Right.

* * *

The three Watchers rode up the road from the south, Penemue raising his arm as they approached the gates of Deep Ice. He saw the soldier disappear from the rampart, and a few minutes later the gates opened, Ruane standing next to them.

"It is over." He dismounted stiffly, turning to her. "They're dead. All of them."

She glanced at Armârôs and Kokabiel, as the men dismounted. "Thank you."

Penemue handed the reins of his horse to the hunter beside her. "The villages to the south will need aid, Ruane. They bore the brunt of the army's attacks. And there are a lot of bodies in the valley now. They will need to be piled and burned."

Ruane nodded. "Valenis sent word, when you returned she needs help at Black River. Elbek and Sergei were badly injured when they closed the Throat. She would like your knowledge to heal them."

He sighed. "Do you have a fresh horse?"

It took several hours to prepare a supply train for the southern villages, and sufficient warriors to accompany them. Penemue rolled his neck, longing for a few hours sleep, knowing he wouldn't get those hours for a while longer yet. Armaros and Kokabiel were setting out when he did, both wanting to be on their way on their long journey south, back to the valley of the Watchers. He had watched the road, in the water, after he'd reached Valenis. It was empty now, and he thought it would remain that way for a long time, the destruction of the towns and villages where the army had come into the mountains would be told and retold until the very stones in the fields would be considered cursed. In time, with the pressure of a growing population, perhaps new towns would rise on the broken foundations of the old. He sighed. Humanity would forget these days and things would go back to normal, eventually, leaving stories perhaps, legends.

He had spent an hour looking into the water for any sign of Sam. Castiel, Dean and Alis he'd found quickly, on a ship in the middle of the sea. The angel had looked slightly green, but they were all alive, and still on their way. Sam he hadn't been able to see at all. Hidden, the water had said, behind something that was too powerful to see through.

They would know if the quest was unsuccessful, he thought tiredly. He was afraid that it would be all too apparent.

* * *

In the shadows, they were barely more than three more shadows, faint outlines against a deeper darkness. Sam looked at them, knowing who they were, feeling anger rising at them as they looked back at him.

Clotho, he thought, seeing the ancient eyes, the only fully manifested part of the eldest sister's face. He looked at the face beside them, more defined, like an artist's careless sketch. Lachesis. And beside her, a young face, smooth and clearly visible, wide eyes fixed on his. Atropos.

"Come to see your handiwork?" he hissed at them. The Moirai looked away for a moment.

"We could not-"

"stop the enchantment, Sam-"

"the binding is ancient and holds us whether we would will it or no." Atropos looked at him.

"How did Lucifer find out about the son of God?"

The sisters were silent. Sam took a step closer to them.

"How?"

"The fallen one looked along the lines," Atropos said.

"Azazel? When?"

"A few centuries ago. He saw the oracle of Ammon, in Siwah."

"Didn't that change the line? Break it or whatever?"

"Not at the time. It was not until later that he told Lucifer of it, and by then the line had been changed by Cesare."

The demon had had it all planned, since the moment he'd found the spell in Heaven, Sam thought. Had known exactly how to circumvent the Moirai and the angels and everyone else.

"You need to beef up your security," he said sourly, turning away from them. Clotho spoke from the shadow.

"You can break-"

"the vessels of the children-"

"and save them, free us to see that this destiny does not come to pass."

He looked from one to the other, frowning at them. "I can't get within thirty feet of that pit, it's too hot."

"When the time is-"

"right, you will see what to do-"

"Sam, we have been forced to spin and weave this line, and it will happen as we have woven if you cannot unbind us from the sacrifice."

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Cesare still engrossed in his final calculations.

"We are not evil-"

"but we can be used for the purposes-"

"of evil men through this enchantment. Sam, if the children are freed, we can cut this line, stop it from ever coming to pass."

He looked at the magma pool. Sweat already crawled through his hair and down his neck from standing this close. How? How he could break the glass and free the children without being roasted alive?

"When will the time be right?" He turned back to Atropos.

"Lucifer must rise-"

"No!" Sam hissed at Clotho. "What's the point of that? Why can't we stop this?"

"The angel must die in this line, Sam." Atropos looked at him. "It is not enough to keep him imprisoned now. The lines-"

"The linessss have fallen-"

"a new destiny has been written, we have-"

"no choice in this. The plan was always there, for Michael to kill his brother on a field of battle in your time. But when the sorcerer bound us, it was cut."

"I don't understand any of this. Why can't you weave a new line?"

"That isss imposs-sss-ible," Clotho said, her voice edged with fury.

"We must follow the Word, as all creatures, Sam. There is-"

"no way for us to weave a new line until the old line has been cut or has reached its end." Atropos glanced at her sisters. "When Lucifer rises, it will be possible to destroy the binding. Once I am free, I can cut this line. Do you understand?"

"Not really. No." He stared at her. "When Lucifer rises, I may be too busy with him to be able to free the children."

"There will be-"

The sisters vanished and Sam turned to see Cesare walking toward him, smiling.

"I told you they were being uncooperative." He stopped a few feet from Sam. "And I see it is time to take away the privileges of being a guest, Sam."

Sam felt a sharp pain in his skull, a burning, penetrating sensation that became stronger and brighter and fiercer, spreading through the nerve endings and clusters, reaching through his nervous system from his brain down through his body. He wanted to scream with the pain, to die from it, but he couldn't move. The mind of the mage slithered into him and through him, and he watched himself step forward, trapped with the burning pain inside his body, another step and another until he stood next to Cesare.

"You didn't really think I would leave you free, did you Sam?" Cesare smiled and Sam felt himself being pulled, almost as if he caught in a severe current or rip, but it wasn't his body, it was his mind that was dragged back, darkness closing in around him, unable to see, or hear, or taste, touch or smell, he was being compressed, forced into a small space, cut off, cut out …


	43. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

* * *

Dean looked at the broken path of silver light behind them. It looked as if the ship herself was painting the moon's reflection over the waves as they sailed west, away from it. Before it set in a few hours' time, it would have overtaken them and then it would seem that they were following the path across the sea. It was getting close to full now, he noticed. It would be full on the solstice. Castiel had told them there would be an eclipse for that night as well, though they wouldn't see it.

He looked forward, where Alis and the angel were sleeping, wrapped in their cloaks and braced against the uprights of the thwarts to keep from rolling with the ship's movement. He could see her face, skin white in the moonlight, her hair a dark cloud, framing it.

It was probably a mistake to have let her in now, he thought, though he couldn't raise the self-deceit needed to regret it. So much of the scar tissue that had numbed and twisted him had vanished with her acceptance. He'd caught a glimpse in her eyes, of a man he wanted to be, someone who had something to live for. But the truth was, he couldn't imagine making it out of the fight with Lucifer in one piece, let alone alive.

"She is very lovely, your lady," Sae-Ulfr said softly. Dean turned his head, to find the man standing next to him, his gaze on Alis.

"Yeah." He looked at the Norseman's profile, hearing something in the man's voice, something that wasn't impersonal. Sae-Ulfr slowly turned his head to meet his gaze.

"Yes, I am envious of you." He turned back to the tiller, walking across the moving deck with a curious fluidity. "The comfort of a woman, the strength of love, the warmth of friendship and family, a place to find peace, to call home … what you have, these things have all been denied to me."

Dean watched him, one brow rising. "How's that?"

"God has cursed me." Sae-Ulfr leaned against the heavy timber tiller, a half-smile twisting his features. "I wander, alone, with no hope of love or peace, until the end of my days."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." The man shook his head. "Other than being born."

Dean stared at him, wondering how much to believe. God might have given up on the world, might have gone AWOL with no intention of fixing the problems that existed in every time, but to curse a single man, for being born? Somehow, it didn't sound quite right.

"You are lucky that your fate was not the same as mine, ørlendr."

"I guess so." It had been close, he thought, too close to think of himself as lucky. _I'm what you've got to look forward to if you survive_. Rufus' voice echoed in his head. Had Rufus considered himself cursed? Maybe. He'd kept hunting though. Dean shook off the thoughts. He was a long way from being able to consider any of the things the Norseman claimed to want as his own.

"Believe me, you are." Sae-Ulfr gestured around at the empty sea surrounding them. "The sea is my home, and a capricious bitch she is, as likely to kill as to comfort. I can't resist her lure, to pit my skill and my courage against her moods, but it is a game that one day I will lose, I have no doubt of that."

He looked back at the sleeping woman. "I sometimes think, if I could find a woman like that, and gain her love, it would save me. I could let go of the cold embrace of the deep water and be content."

Dean felt a trickle of unease down his spine. "Well, maybe next time, man."

Sae-Ulfr looked at him, the wry smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. "Yes, maybe next time."

* * *

Sergei opened his eyes carefully, the light very bright after darkness for so long. His vision was blurred, the colours mixing together as he tried to make out the moving shapes around him. His head was cold, very cold, but the rest of him felt warm.

"He is waking."

The soft, calm voice was the healer's. He'd heard it many times before, lying in a bed, unsure of how he'd gotten there. He was careful not to move.

"Good." Another voice, male, warm and rich.

He felt a warm hand touch his forehead and the cold was taken away, his head gently lifted and placed onto a soft fur.

"Don't move." Valenis' voice cautioned him. "You have been in a very deep sleep for many days. Drink, just a little sip at a time, Sergei."

He felt the slim reed touch his lips and opened them slightly, sucking to draw the liquid into his mouth. It was cool and sweet and tart, and it washed the taste from his tongue, and the sharp dryness from his throat. He closed his eyes again, finding that he was tired again.

"The swelling has gone. Willow bark for the pain. Nothing else. And a lot of liquid, Valenis. As much as he can drink. The tea, water, clear broth."

He felt himself drift away from them. There was pain, he could feel it distantly. In his chest, and his arm, along one side of his head. But not enough to prevent sleep.

* * *

After six days at sea, the steady pitch and roll of the boat were so familiar that when there was a change, Dean felt it, and woke.

He opened his eyes, and the small world of the boat and the sea was starkly black and white, the moon's bright light and the black shadows where it couldn't reach. Sitting up, he looked around, seeing everything was as it had been when he gone to sleep. Castiel slept beside him, the angel's face shadowed along the jaw and throat with a couple of days' growth. He rubbed his own jawline, feeling the stubble itch under the salt that covered everything.

He looked the other way, his eyes passing over the crumpled pile of fur without thought at first. Then they snapped back and he realised that Alis wasn't there. At the same time, he picked up the low voice from the aft of the boat, and straightened up, looking over the thwart to the stern.

Sae-Ulfr stood, his hands on the long tiller. Alis, her back pressed against the timber, stood trapped between his arms, her face turned away from the man as he leaned closer to her. The tiller shifted slightly, and the boat moved off-course another half a degree.

"Hey." Dean rolled to his feet, and started to move down the length of the boat toward them, his initial uncertainty replaced by anger as he got close enough to see them clearly.

"HEY!"

Sae-Ulfr looked around at him, and in the moment of inattention, Alis drew the blood metal knife from her belt, the blade flashing up between them, angling the point to press against the man's throat. He threw himself backwards, away from her, his eyes fixed on the knife. Dean saw his face change, elongating bizarrely in the white light as he hissed at her. Then he turned and dove over the side of the boat in a fast, fluid motion, disappearing under the black water.

"What the fuck-," Dean ran to the gunwale, leaning over as he looked along the curl of foam next to the hull, the wake that stretched out behind them.

"_Nøkken_." Alis' fingers were still tightly gripped around the hilt of her knife as she came up beside him, looking into the water. "Iron is poison to them."

"What?"

"A sea spirit." She flicked a glance at him, and turned away, walking back to the tiller and pulling it toward her, correcting their course. "He wasn't human."

"Are you alright?" He followed her slowly to the stern of the boat, looking at the sea around them.

"Yes." She looked up at the sail, one side was fluttering now, instead of being full and stretched. "The nøkken attempt to draw people close to them, to tie them with emotion. They are related, distantly, to the näkki of the marshes and rivers. I should have realised when I heard him play. My mother told me, in every story about them, that they are very good musicians."

Dean looked at her. "Two days ago, he was watching you sleep. He said that he thought if he could find someone to love him, he could be free of the sea." He wished he'd paid more attention that strange conversation, wished he'd told Alis about it the next morning. But it hadn't seemed all that important at the time.

Alis shook her head. "Nothing can do that, but they try to make people love them, to stay with them. I do not know why."

"Can we get to this island without him?" He followed her gaze, looking blankly at the sail.

"I think so. That bearing is on the north star." She gestured to a small cut in the timber of the gunwale beside her. "Keeping that aligned with the star keeps us going in the right direction."

"So long as we can see the star." Dean felt a sudden gust of wind against his back, and looked behind them. Another gust hit him, and he squinted against it, looking at the horizon, that seemed to be getting darker. A ragged line of cloud was coming up on them fast, faster than the wind could account for, growing and spreading out to block out the sky as he watched. "That doesn't look normal."

Alis looked back, her brows drawing together as she watched the swift approach of the clouds. "He's calling a storm."

"Are you kidding? Come on!" Dean looked over the side at the water. "Can't any of you freaking creatures handle a little rejection?"

"Wake Castiel, Dean." Alis watched the seas as they began to hump around them. "We need to make the sail smaller."

* * *

Sam sat on the floor against the wall of the great cavern, his mind released from the tiny space in the lattice of the crystal, enough to see and hear what happened around his body, but not enough to be able to move a muscle or feel a nerve ending.

Cesare controlled him now, any hope of being able to get out to stop the ritual gone. Obviously the angel did not require consent to pass through him, and unless Dean and Cas made it to the island in time, there was going to be nothing anyone could do to prevent Lucifer from rising. He doubted that the angel would give Cesare the power he wanted. It gave him a very small trickle of dark satisfaction that the mage would probably be squashed like a bug the second the angel came through.

He watched Cesare and Samyaza move around the cavern, preparing for the ritual. Now he knew what the Watcher had undergone, all those days they'd been on the road, and why sometimes it had seemed that the Watcher was absent, even when the mage hadn't been fully present. It wasn't like the possession by a demon, he couldn't feel or sense the thoughts of the mage, but his body wasn't his own, and there was no chance he could overcome Cesare's control, directed through the device, the way he thought he might have been able to in a possession.

Had the other Watchers been freed of the devices? Cesare hadn't mentioned his armies in the south, or the Watchers, or even his brother for days, not since he'd exploded in rage in the room he'd been locked.

He couldn't feel the air, warm or cool, against his skin, but knew that he'd been stripped. He couldn't control the muscles of his eyes or neck to look down, or feel the blood crusting against his flesh but he knew that mage had cut him. Cesare had gone to some trouble to explain the locking sigils that had been carved into him, to keep his soul inside his body, even if he died before the ritual. The mage had been clear that no matter happened before the appointed time, nothing would now prevent the angel from coming through him, using his soul to open the way into Heaven.

Cesare came into his field of vision, the mage walking toward him.

"Stand up."

Sam saw his body respond, but couldn't feel the action. It was disorienting, as if he were on a bizarre amusement park ride.

"Ah, Sam." Cesare looked into his eyes, seeing him. "I am truly sorry you won't be able to feel all that will happen over the next two days. The honour of being the doorway would surely be enhanced by the excruciating pain as Lucifer permeates your soul."

He sighed regretfully. "Still, there's no reason you shouldn't have an intellectual concept of what will happen."

* * *

Dean started to move forward, swearing as the boat lurched to one side, and he cracked his shin against the thwart that hadn't been there a moment before. He didn't have to wake the angel when he got to him, Castiel was sitting up, looking around as the boat's movements became more and more severe.

"What's going on?" He caught sight of Dean, holding onto the thwart behind him.

"Our capitano isn't human." Dean dropped to his knees next to the angel. "He tried to make a move on Alis, and got pissed when she pulled a knife on him. He went over the side and called a storm on us."

Castiel nodded, rolling out of his cloak, and getting cautiously to his feet. The seas, which had been running smoothly from a single direction for days, were now coming from every direction, lifting and throwing the boat from one to another, the angle changing from roll to pitch as two waves met under them, the roar of the water and hiss of the foam sounding through the hull timbers under their feet. There was nothing predictable about the boat's movements, and they clung to the thwarts, the gunwales, anything that was a solid anchor point as they moved up to the mast.

Dean looked up at the sail, now filling with wind, the rigging humming under the tension, then sail and rope falling slack as they slid into a trough and the wind disappeared.

"Alis said we need to make the sail smaller." He looked at Castiel. "Any ideas?"

"The yard, the long pole that holds the sail at the top." Castiel looked around for the halyard. "We need to lower it and tie a part of the sail to it, along the lines."

Dean saw the rope that lifted the yard, and unwound it from the belaying pins behind the mast. He felt the weight of the spar suddenly multiply as the wind caught the sail again and pushed against it.

"Sonofabitch." Wrapping the rope around one hand, he started to ease the heavy pole down, the tension vanishing when they slipped down another wave and the wind was blocked by the sea.

Castiel moved forward of the mast, reaching up to catch the spar as it came within reach. "Hold it there, I'll tie it up."

There were three lines of leather ties and holes in the sail, reinforced with stitching, one close to the top, one about a third of the way down the sail from the yard, the third half-way down the sail. He chose the lowest line, gathering up the loose sail above it and bunching it close to the spar, running the leather thong around the sail and spar and back through the hole before tying it off tightly. He moved up the row and tied off the second, then the third.

The boat wallowed in the confused seas, spray tossed over them as they worked, and Dean realised that without the steadying pressure of the sail, without the forward motion to provide something for the rudder to work against, they could easily be rolled over by the waves. He tied off the halyard and started reefing at the other of the sail.

By the time they were done, the top half of the sail furled between the reef points and the yard, they were soaked in salt spray. He pulled up the sail again, belaying it off when the yard had reached the topmost block. The reduced cloth caught a gust and filled, bellying out, and he could feel the boat begin to move again, more slowly now, but making way against the seas. He glanced at Alis, saw her nod as she pushed against the tiller, the rudder once again responsive, the boat steering across the waves.

Castiel leaned against the side of the ship, looking behind them. "At least the storm will push us in the right direction."

"Going to be hard to be sure of that without being able to see the stars or the sun." Dean looked up. Almost all the stars were obscured now, and the wind was getting ever stronger, moaning softly in the rigging. He worked his way cautiously down the deck, to the stern where Alis now had to use her whole body to keep their course straight.

He stood behind her, his arms to either side of her, adding his strength to hers as the boat fought against the pressure of the wind and seas.

"How do you know where to steer?" He had to bend close to her as the noise of the wind increased, and thunder muttered behind them.

"The sail." She turned her head toward him. "See the angle it makes with the mast?"

"Yeah."

"We need to keep it at that angle, the wind direction has been constant. It's not as accurate as the stars, but it will keep us slightly north of west. The nøkken said that was the course he'd laid."

He nodded, and looked down at her. "I got it."

She slipped out from under his arms and went forward, packing their supplies into a tight bundle and lashing it to the mast above the deck. The storm was only beginning, it would get a lot worse, she thought, as bad as the nøkken could conjure.

Dean watched her and Castiel moving around, securing everything to the thwarts or sides of the boat, spreading a small, thicker sheet of cloth over several of the thwarts to give them some shelter from the spray and the wind. He was surprised at the strength of the combination of the wind and sea against the tiller he held, bracing himself harder as the boat tried to turn up a wave, fighting with it to keep them on the same line. He glanced back over his shoulder, hearing the rumble of thunder growing louder behind them, looking forward and up at the top of the mast, undoubtedly the highest thing for hundreds of miles in the open sea. He had no idea if that meant they were more likely to be struck, or what would happen to the charge if the mast was struck.

* * *

Penemue mounted the bay mare at the gates of Black River. He looked down at the woman standing beside his horse's shoulder.

"They will both recover. You and your apprentice have done very well."

"Thanks to you." She smiled at him. "Must you go now?"

He nodded with a little regret. "The devastation the army wreaked through the lower mountains, there is a lot I have to do. I will come back, at the end of spring, I think."

"You are always welcome here." She stepped back from the horse and he turned in the gateway, lifting a hand as he rode through the gates and down the road leading south.

There was a lot to do. But before he could start any of it, he needed to talk to Michael. Heaven had been conspicuous in its absence on the field in this battle. He wanted to know why.

He pushed the mare into a trot, then a canter, glancing over his shoulder at the clouds that were piling up above the ranges to the east. He would keep riding until the weather stopped him, he thought, then make a camp in one of the higher valleys, and summon the archangel.

* * *

The full fury hit them an hour later. Dean watched in disbelief as the wind tore the tops of the rising, chaotic seas, the spindrift flying out over the ship, a horizontal waterfall that soaked everything. Lightning hit the water all around them, the sea sizzling and boiling with each strike, the smell of the charge bitter and acrid, the light strobing with the number of hits, making it impossible to see anything in detail. The sail had gone, the tatters and shreds that remained tied to the yard flying out stiffly like pennants in front of them. The rudder had gone next, slammed from side to the other as two seas had met under them, and Dean had felt the resistance vanish through the wood of the tiller in his hands, turning and seeing only the pintle and a few splinters remaining where the rudder had been.

With no means of steering, or propelling themselves, they were left to the mercy of the storm, the boat thrust headlong over the waves by the wind against the mast, the three of them curled under the shelter, as sleet sheeted down onto them.

The upright of the thwart digging into his back, Dean lay on the deck, Alis against him, Castiel beyond her, listening to the deafening noises that made up the storm. Scratch travel by boat, he thought tiredly, flinching as the hull rolled and the cold water filling the bottom sloshed against his back and side and legs. Who'd have thought that flying would actually look good?

He turned his head, frowning as he thought he heard another sound, under the wailing, shrieking wind, the roar of the waves and the creak and groaning of the boat's timbers. He felt Alis lift her head as well, her eyes widening.

"That's the shore!" Castiel shouted.

He recognised the sound as the angel said it, the sound of breakers hitting a –

The impact with the rock threw them forward in their confined space and he heard Alis' gasp in the darkness, over the splintering and tearing of the boat's hull as it collided with the unyielding rocks. Dean wriggled out from under the shelter as the next wave lifted the stern of the boat, and he felt himself falling, the boat's bows caught in the rocks, the stern rising higher with the rush of water behind them, and finally being pitched over itself, driven down onto the jagged black rock at the edge of the island.

He shook his head, lifting it clear of the salt water and stared around him. He'd been thrown a few feet to one side of the wreck when it had gone over, landing hard on a rough plateau of rock a little higher than the remains of the boat.

Lightning hit the land, close by, the charge flickering around the trees above him. In the flash of light he saw the wreck clearly, the shape of the boat gone, cracked and shattered timbers strewn over the rock, swept away by the waves as they rose to break against the shore and withdrew, leaving foam bubbling over the black stone and little else.

_No_. He got a knee under himself, flinching as a rib flexed sickeningly, and stood up, moving slowly by feel across the rocks. Another lightning strike hit the sea and he corrected his direction by its light, eyes desperately straining to see past the glare, for any sign of Alis and Cas amidst the wreckage. As the afterimage of the bolt faded, he stopped, closing his eyes for a moment to let them adjust to the darkness, then opening them. The sea, rocks and sky were all black, and another band of sleet and ice passed over the edge of the island, stopping him again as he turned his head away from it, the frozen wind biting into his wet clothes, wet skin, chilling him to the bone.

The thick mast had taken the brunt of the fall, smashing into pieces as the boat had been overturned. He found the thick roll of their weapons and supplies, still lashed to its base, and crouched beside it, fingers automatically undoing the knots that Alis had made to keep it there. He picked it up and staggered inland, carrying it up above the reach of the waves and half-lifting, half-throwing it into a cleft in the rocks. He looked blankly at the branches and limbs that lay that, fallen from the twisted trees above and reached out to pick up a long one, his hand feeling for the lighter that he still carried everywhere, despite the fact that it had long ago run out of fuel. The flint in it would be drier than the larger pieces he carried to light their campfires. Feeling along the edge between the rock and the earthen bank above it, he found a handful of dry grasses, wedged into hole beneath the roots of a tree. He pulled them free, wrapping them around the end of the stick and flicking the lighter. The tiny sparks caught the grass, despite the sleet, and warm, yellow flames licked around the end of the branch.

With the wind gusting, without oil, the torch would go out as soon as it got wet enough, he knew. He hurried back to the wreck, the flaming branch lifted above his head, as he searched for Alis and Castiel.

Alis was under what remained of the keel and deck. He thought, at first, as the torch light lit up the shallow pool, that it was filled with seaweed. Then he realised it was her hair, spread out and undulating in the moving water. He looked at the yard, still with its shreds of sail hanging, and put the torch under them, hoping that the oils and wax that stiffened the material would catch and burn long enough for him to get her out. They did, and he dropped the torch on the thick keel timber, lying down and sliding under the keel to reach her shoulders.

In the flickering light, he saw her face first, white and bloodless, a long cut running from her temple into her hair, blood dripping from it into the water under her. He turned onto his back, and stretched out an arm, fingers curling around her shoulder, pulling her toward him. It took a long time to ease her out from under the keel, the sail had almost burned out by the time he was actually able to get onto his knees and get his arms under her knees and back, lifting her unsteadily and carrying her up above the reach of the sea. When he lowered her to the ground, he leaned over her, pressing his ear to her chest. He heard the slow beat and closed his eyes, feeling a slight rise in her ribs as she pulled air in and let it again. He dragged the wet cloak from the bundle of their gear, and threw it over her, and hurried back to the wreck.

Castiel lay on the other side of the remains of the boat, face down on the rocks, one arm flung out, the other bent under him. Dean rolled him carefully onto his back, straightening the broken arm, seeing where the bone had fractured and broken through the skin. His heart was beating strongly and he was breathing alright, but Dean looked at the mottled bruising, just starting to rise along the side of his face, worriedly. He shifted the angel into a sitting position, surprised when Castiel opened his eyes and squinted at him, dark blue eyes bloodshot.

"Are we on the island?"

Dean shifted next to him, lifting the angel's unbroken arm over his shoulder. "Yeah, we're on the island."

"Good."

That was a matter of opinion, Dean thought, dragging Castiel to his feet and helping him across the rocks. The storm, having done its damage, was easing, and the wind dropping. He heard the noise behind him as he eased the angel down to the ground next to Alis, and spun around, staring.

Sae-Ulfr stood twenty feet away, dripping onto the black rock, his face mournful as he looked past Dean to Alis.

"I did not mean to hurt her."

Dean looked at him, his sympathy all used up for the night. "No. You meant to kill her. And him, and me. I can understand God cursing you."

The nøkken shook his head. "I did not mean to kill you. I was angry. It went too far."

"Yeah, well, we're still alive. And I'm running out of patience, so get lost." He felt along the back of his belt, to the crude holster he'd added when he'd decided to bring the gun. Miraculously it was still there, and the 9mm Colt didn't mind a soaking. He pulled it out as the nøkken took a step forward.

"I'm not kidding," he warned the creature, levelling the barrel and thumbing off the safety.

"I can heal them." Sae-Ulfr looked up at him. "I can heal their injuries."

He felt a tug of hope against his suspicion, and his grip loosened slightly on the gun. Sae-Ulfr took another step toward them and the light from the burning sail cloth lit up the side of his face, throwing the other side into shadow. Dean saw the glint of something in the darkened eye socket, something old and sly, something not human, and something definitely not interested in healing. His finger tightened on the trigger without thought, the noise of the gunshot deafening against the hard rock around them.

The plain steel-jacketed round entered the nøkken's body slightly to the left of centre in the chest, punching through the heart and exiting in a welter of flesh and bone through the spine. The creature dropped to the rocks, dead eyes wide with astonishment, the next wave swirling around the body, lifting it slightly as it receded.

* * *

The break in Castiel's arm was nightmarish to set straight, and he'd never wanted a bottle of whiskey more than during those moments when he caught sight of the angel's face as he pulled the bone back through the rent in the skin and found where the two ends met. How Cas had stood it without screaming, he wasn't sure, but the angel retreated into himself as he splinted and bound it, his skin white and pinched looking, only nodding slightly when he was done.

He walked back to Alis, crouching beside her. He needed a fire, needed someplace safe to make camp, needed to get their gear dried out and their wounds cleaned and dressed. He glanced down at his watch, still ticking away on his wrist. December 20. They'd made it … sort of. Bruised and broken, but they were here.

Alis opened her eyes, and he lifted the dying torch, looking at her pupils. They were the same size and both contracted as the light hit them. He breathed a small sigh of relief.

"What happened?" She lifted her hand to her head, wincing as her fingers found the cut. "The boat … turned over?"

"Yeah. You and Cas have some injuries. I think they'll be alright. How does your head feel?"

"Sore, here." She looked around, shifting up on to her elbows, hissing slightly as the movement brought her attention to other pains. "Nothing bad."

"Can you walk?" He straightened up, holding out his hand. She took it, nodding, and let him draw her up. "We need to find a sheltered place, set up camp."

Castiel accepted help in getting back onto his feet and they climbed the steep bank slowly, away from the sea. When they reached the top, they looked around, seeing the snow-covered volcano immediately in the shifting, intermittent moonlight as the clouds broke apart.

"That's the power source." Castiel murmured. Dean shrugged, turning away. They were on the other end of the island, it might take them a day to walk there, depending on the terrain. Right now he was more concerned with getting out of the wind, getting dry, looking at the cuts and bruises that all three of had and seeing how much use any of them would be in the fight tomorrow.

He found a small hollow, between the two low ridges and a thick stand of trees, another mile into the interior. The wind had dropped a lot but it was still fresh, and it was still icy. Tying the remains of the small, stiffened sailcloth to the trunks of four of the trees, he pulled it tight and angled it downward away from the fire. It would keep the wind off them, and hopefully keep them dry if it snowed or sleeted further in the night. There was plenty of firewood under the thickly covered branches, some it even quite dry, and the fire gave him light and warmth to work in. Their clothing, the fur cloaks, and most of their food was soaked, and he stretched out more line between the trees and hung them out, blocking the wind's gusts further, and trapping a little more of the heat of the fire in the tiny clearing.

Alis' bag had survived, and she set out the pastes and unguents, pulling out their iron pot and Valenis' tea and boiling the water over the fire. The flatbread was gone, but the dried fruit and jerky were still there, a bit salty now, but otherwise filling. Castiel lay on the pine needles under the shelter, a cloth packed with snow against the side of his face to reduce the swelling and bruising. A similar cloth was tied roughly around Alis' head, lying against the long cut that had been filled with the wound paste and covered lightly with a thin clean piece of homespun.

Dean hadn't noticed the grazes and cuts that had torn through his clothing, making a bloody mess of his forearms and knees and thighs, when he'd been thrown from the boat into the sharp black volcanic rock. Now they'd been cleaned and covered in paste, the worst of them bound up. He could feel himself stiffening, the muscles sore and protesting as the urgency of action died away and the longing for sleep got closer.

He sat down next to the shelter, close enough to feel the warmth of the fire soaking into him, and pulled his sword from its scabbard, wiping it down and working the edge slowly over the honing stone, using a little of the oil Alis' carried with her for sharpening their weapons. His bow had snapped, something heavy had fallen onto it, he thought, but the blood metal sword and knife were fine, and the automatic was dry again, clean and reassembled and reloaded. Alis had looked at it curiously, but hadn't asked about it.

He looked up as she came to sit beside him, pulling her own sword out, and looking down the edge.

"You alright?"

She glanced across at him, nodding. "Yes, the food and the tea have helped the soreness. By dawn, I think most of the pain will be gone. I will feel stiff though."

He smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I think we're all going to feel pretty stiff." He looked to the north east. "Got a twenty mile hike to warm up before the fight."

"Just as well." She looked back at the edge of her sword.

"Alis, I want you to stay here, with Cas tomorrow." He glanced at the angel. "His arm is broken, and he won't be able to –,"

"No." She didn't look at him, her attention fixed on the blade.

"Alis, this is my fight. You and Cas, there's no need for you die in there as well."

"That will be up to the gods … or his God. But you will not go in there alone."

He chewed on the inside of his lip, hearing the determination in her voice. Why were people always throwing their lives away for him? Why did they follow him to their deaths?

His silence stretched out and she finally turned to look at him, seeing worry and a deeper regret in his eyes. "I understand why you want to protect us, Dean. I do. You need to understand that I, we," she glanced at the sleeping angel under the shelter, "want to be there to protect you as well. No one hunts alone, not if they want to survive."

"This isn't a hunt. The odds are not fifty-fifty here, Alis. I've seen Lucifer, in the future, and prophecy or no prophecy, I don't rate my chances of getting out there alive very highly."

"Then it makes sense to have back up, does it not?" She put her sword down, moving closer to him.

"I don't need back up for a suicide mission, Alis." He looked away from her. "I don't want your death, or his death, on me, not when there's no need for it." He gestured at the clearing. "You can stay here, be out of the way -,"

She smiled slightly. "There is nowhere that will be safe when the angel rises, Dean. Your confidence in our skill is underwhelming. We might surprise you."

"Don't … don't try to make jokes about this, okay?"

"All right." She lifted her hand, turning his face back to her. "You are the Corival, Dean. The one who is meant to be here, meant to destroy this angel. Trust in that if you cannot trust in me, or your friend."

"I do trust -,"

She cut him off, leaning close and pressing her lips against his, the kiss hungry and demanding. Despite his injuries and hers, their tiredness, his fear, and the multiplying doubts of what he would have to face tomorrow, or, perhaps because of those things, desire flickered and rose in him, a fierce longing for life, in defiance of thoughts of failure, of death.


	44. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

* * *

The sun was low on the horizon, the light red across the thin streamers of cloud that were all that remained from the night's storm, and across the snow that covered the island from end to end. It had been in the same position for the entire day, just above the flat line of the edge of the sea, circling them as they'd travelled along the island's length, a day of walking through the dusk, with purple and indigo shadows stretching out long from trees and rock and ridge.

Now, finally it was sinking. Dean stopped, waiting for Alis and Castiel where the isthmus finally rose into the slopes of the volcano's cone, watching the red orb get closer to the sea. He felt Alis beside him and was about to turn to her, his mouth opening to speak, when he saw the flare and his attention sharpened on the star.

The red turned to gold as another, monstrous, flare shot out, seeming to be absorbed by the sea as the lower limb touched its edge.

"Did you see that?" He turned to Alis, who shook her head, then looked past her to Castiel. The angle nodded.

"It's the first sign, Dean. Solar flare." He looked up at the darkening sky overhead.

There were two more flares before the sun disappeared below the edge of the world, each bigger than the one before. Castiel watched in silence, his gaze flicking upwards every few minutes.

"What was that?" Alis' voice was small and quiet.

"The sun is actually a star, a ball of gases that burn brightly. Every now and then the gases become hotter and flare out. One of the signs of the prophecy was that the sun would increase its brightness ten-fold. In the latitudes south of here, it was probably a lot brighter." Castiel explained absently, staring upwards.

"What are you looking for?" Dean watched the angel.

"The northern lights." Castiel glanced at him, then back up. "With flares of that power, they should be strong tonight."

"And that's important because …?"

"I'm not sure yet. I just have a feeling about them." Castiel shrugged.

"A feeling?" Dean frowned at him. "Man, you are becoming human."

He turned away, looking up the slope of the mountain in front of him. "Any ideas as to where we're going to be able to get in?"

"He's using the eclipse in the ritual. So he will need an opening that lies east-west in the mountains side." Castiel turned, looking along the mountain's eastern flank. "Somewhere along there."

"Alright." He turned and started walking, bearing right as he followed a faint trail over the snow and rock.

The trail meandered up and down the slope, petering out from time to time and forcing them to cling to the rocks as they tried to find footholds under the snow cover. The lights began two hours after sunset, bringing them to a stop as the first pink and green snaking ribbons lit the sky over them, casting moving, flickering shadows in front of them. The colours shifted through the spectrum, blue and gold, red and white and sound filled the night, a monstrous hissing sound, that crackled and then cracked, fading away to the whisper of silk on silk before growing louder once more. The ribbons coiled and twisted and then became curtains, shimmering and fluttering in an unseen cosmic wind, stretching between the heavens and the horizon and sinking, the colours bleaching out to white and disappearing.

Dean, Alis and Castiel stood still for a long moment afterwards, watching the sky return to normal, the stars shine again over the snow and sea.

"There will be more later, I think." Castiel said quietly. "Come on, we're nearly there."

"Why was that important, Cas?" Dean strode after him.

"I don't know, Dean. Something to do with the power …," He shook his head. "I can feel it, but I can't explain it."

Dean glanced back over his shoulder, checking Alis was still behind him, then shifting his gaze to the sky. He'd seen the aurora borealis plenty of times, hunting in the north with his father when he was younger. He'd never seen them like that. That had looked as if God had spoken to them.

* * *

Penemue sat under the low branches of the spruce, watching the fire. Four bowls sat before him, each filled with a different herb or powder. He checked that he had everything and began the incantation, his eyes closed, but still seeing the fire, the night beyond it. At each point of the ritual where he requested the help of a different entity, he threw the contents of one of the bowls into the fire, seeing the flames change colour and shape, hearing inside his mind the request rising on the heated air to the heavens above.

When all four bowls had been emptied, he waited, his mind dark and still, empty and receptive.

The heavy backdraught of the wings blew the heat of the fire at him, and he opened his eyes, squinting at the brilliance of the white light that surrounded the archangel, opening them a little wider as the light faded, and Michael stood on the other side of the fire, his construct human, yet not, the massive white wings lifted high above his shoulders and folded in against his back.

"Penemue. That spell has been banned for some time."

"It was an emergency, and the only way I knew of to contact you, Michael." The Watcher didn't fool himself that the meeting would be cordial. One of the many reasons he'd chosen to fall had been a dispute with the member of the Eighth Choir who stood before him.

"I'm here. Speak." Michael's hand rested on the elaborate basketwork hilt of his sword, his eyes, an unearthly shade of deep blue, staring at him.

"The spell the sorcerer is using to bring Lucifer out of the Cage early – it was originally from Heaven, wasn't it?"

Michael inclined his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That is the current consensus."

"Azazel stole it? Before he Fell?" Penemue pressed him.

"Thoth was sure of it." Michael shrugged, the wings rustling behind him. "The scribe caught his scent, down in the vaults. It was old, but Azazel had been his student, he was sure it was him."

"Cesare has been around for six hundred years, Michael, gathering the knowledge and the required ingredients for this ritual, how is that Heaven was caught on the back foot? Wasn't anyone watching the little bastard?"

"Of course we were watching him. He seemed to be making no progress. And we didn't know he had the spell, until he took control of the Watchers. The prophecy came from the dragons, Penemue, not from us. We only heard about it when you did."

"How is that possible?" Penemue scowled. "Is no one doing their job up there?"

Michael bristled at the accusation. "Lucifer wasn't high on the list of priorities. There have been other uprisings, more recently. Disturbing signs that some of our brothers were not the loyalists we thought they were."

Penemue looked at him. "Another civil war? Now?"

Michael shook his head. "Not that obvious, not yet. Call it … subversion. We are trying to find out who's behind it, but they're covering their tracks too well. And then this … it couldn't have happened at worse time."

"Perhaps that's why it did." Penemue rubbed his forehead. "What about the binding of the Moirai?"

"That was a part of the original spell. To change the course of the lines it was necessary to bind the Fates. Once bound and compliant, the rest could be set in place."

"Why aren't you doing anything about it then? Why are you leaving it to the humans to stop him, to kill him?"

Michael's face tightened, his eyes blazing. "The Mattara has forbidden our involvement. Forbidden it, Penemue. That order comes direct from our Father. We are not allowed to interfere at all."

Penemue felt the blood drain from his face. "Why? Why would He do this?"

"You tell me. I've prayed for answers, I've prayed to be allowed to deal with this, at the moment of his rising. I've heard nothing in return." The archangel turned away, closing his eyes.

"But, what if they fail?" The Watcher looked up. "They're human, Michael. What if they die trying to stop him and fail?"

"Then you better hope there's a back up plan somewhere, because if he succeeds in using the younger Winchester as a doorway, he will have access to Heaven again."

"What?" Penemue stared at him.

"That is the end game, for Lucifer. Sam Winchester, born after the sacrifice of Christ, his soul clean and washed in the blood of the Lamb. And Lucifer can pass through it, he doesn't even need to take it, just pass through and let that clean soul hide him as he comes through the Gates."

"He could've used anyone. Why Sam?"

"I don't know. But I don't think he could have used anyone. The brothers and Castiel have been locked together in this loop in destiny since it was first woven, Penemue. Even the Moirai cannot explain why. I even wondered if it was our Father, determined to wipe out the mistakes of Cain and Abel in some peculiar and illogical fashion." He shook his head. "I don't know why. But you know that once the players are woven in, they never change. So Lucifer could only use Sam. And his brother could be the only one to defeat him."

"There has to be something we can do, some way we can get around this."

"There isn't. On the eve of the winter solstice, Lucifer will come back into this world, and if the three of them aren't there, aren't strong enough to defeat him, then he will return to Heaven, and then you will see civil war. As you've never seen it before."

He looked up, his head tilted slightly as if listening. "They're calling for me. I wish I had a reason or a way out, Penemue, I do. But there is nothing we can do now, except hope and pray."

His wings stretched out to either side, gilded by the firelight along the pearl and alabaster and cream and silver feathers. The first downstroke lifted him fifty feet into the air; the second took him out of sight.

Penemue threw another few pieces of wood onto the fire, pushing the small iron pot of water over the flames. God had not intervened in the events on earth for thousands of years. Why was He interfering now?

* * *

Light, flame-red and golden and pale blue spilled out of the broad cavern entrance, over the lip and into the darkness. Dean crouched beside the opening, peering around the corner into the interior.

The vast space looked warm and … cheerful. That alone was disorienting. Dark pine boughs and branches had been placed around the walls and over the doorways, the smell of freshly cut conifer filling the warm air that filled the cavern. Mistletoe and holly branches and berries were also placed strategically around the area, and to one side a massive wooden table had been set, the timbers groaning under the weight of the food that covered it, from roasted pig to entire haunches of venison, cakes and dried candied apples, biscuits and loaves of bread, the scents competing with the sharper pine in the heat.

He leaned back against the wall, running his hand over his jaw. It looked like the dude was having a party. All that was missing was the 'Welcome Home' banner hanging somewhere.

"What is it?" Castiel hissed at him. "What do you see?"

"Norman Rockwell." Dean closed his eyes and then turned back to the room. It was empty for the moment, he couldn't see movement anywhere. "Come on, see for yourself."

He glanced at his watch as he stood. Ten o'clock. Two more hours. He needed to find Sam.

They slipped around the entrance, carrying their weapons ready in their hands. Everything else, save Alis' healers' pouch, had been left at the camp. Along the path from the opening directly into the room, circles had been cut into the floor, interlocking as they progressed deeper. The final circle was much larger than the others, and led to a channel that had been carved into the sigil of Lucifer, the stylised trident crossed by the horns of a beast. Dean looked down at it. Ground zero, he thought.

He didn't know what made him look up, instinct perhaps. He lifted his head, tipping it back and froze. Sam was directly above him, high above the floor, arms and legs stretched out, his head hanging down, eyes closed, hair falling over his face. He couldn't see how he was being held, but he could see the symbols that had been carved into him, over his chest and stomach, around his shoulders. The blood had dried, crusting over the pale skin.

"Cas!" He dragged his gaze from his brother, looking for the angel.

Alis had looked up as well, her face drawn as she looked into Sam's face. His eyes opened and she backed up a step as she saw the red in them, overwhelming the hazel.

"Dean?"

He turned and looked up. "Sam?"

"Not really, Dean. Not anymore," Sam said softly, in a voice that wasn't his own. He was descending slowly, his head lifting higher, the red filming over his eyes becoming brighter. "I am the doorway and the way through to Heaven."

"Cas!" Dean backed away as Sam floated downward. "Sam, we're going to get you out of here."

Sam laughed, not his laugh, a deeper, darker sound. "You don't listen, do you?"

Dean watched him as he rotated, his feet gently touching the stone floor. In the brighter light, he could see the expression on his brother's face, and it wasn't one he'd ever seen on Sam before. The mage, he thought, controlling him as he'd controlled the Watchers.

"Sam isn't Sam." Castiel walked up behind him, stopping a few feet away. "Cesare, you might as well show yourself."

Dean watched the red dim in Sam's eyes, as footsteps sounded in the tunnel on the other side of the cavern.

"The angel." Cesare entered the room, and Dean half-turned, looking over his shoulder at him. He'd been expecting … he didn't know what, but the man who strode across the polished black stone wasn't it. Cesare stood three or four inches below his own height, a heavy man of about forty, smooth olive skin and black hair combed back from a high forehead, dark brown eyes hooded eyes under black brows, a wide, fleshy mouth framed by a black beard, threaded with silver. The mage wore robes, black underneath, a long white surcoat over, belted at the waist with a sword belt. Several rings flashed in the red light as he waved his hand in an expansive gesture around the room.

"And the Corival, I presume?" He ran his gaze over Dean, one brow lifted. "I have to say, you don't seem all that impressive."

"Try me." Dean looked at him coldly.

Behind the mage, Samyaza walked slowly, his silver eyes empty and blank. Castiel looked at him, then turned away, focussing on the mage.

"In due time." Cesare smiled. "I would not want to waste the opportunity to use your soul after you are dead."

Dean shrugged, glancing at Castiel, then at Alis. "Why is it that monsters are always so confident they're not going to be the ones lying on the floor?" He looked back at Cesare, half-turning toward the mage. "Let's get this show on the road."

His sword hissed as he used the turn to bring up the blade, the short, flat arc aimed at the mage's throat, the long stride forward taking him within reach. Cesare lifted a hand and the sword stopped as if it had hit a wall, the impact reverberating through his wrists and elbows and shoulders. Behind him, Sam began to walk forward.

Alis watched as Dean's blow was stopped less than a foot from the mage, seeing Castiel's sword rising on the other side of them. She was surprised when her attack was met by the mage's sword, but let her blade slide down his, using the metal to feel the strength and skill in the hands and wrists that controlled it. _Stronger_. _Skilled_. _Greater reach_. The assessment was filed away, and she turned away from the engagement, dropping to one knee under Cesare's lunge, and rising again, her sword a blur as she swung it up and over his arm, the tip striking his shoulder, slicing through the cloth and emerging on the downstroke with its tip reddened. She moved backwards, out of his reach as he stared at her, and the robe around the wound began to gleam as the blood soaked in. Cesare pivoted, following her movement, his face set and cold.

Behind him, Castiel's sword was raised, and he stumbled as the downstroke was stopped by Samyaza's sword blade, engaging his and almost pulling it from his hands. He hadn't seen the Watcher move, and he backed up a step, looking into his eyes, seeing the faint trace of red against the silver irises.

Dean had watched the speed of Cesare's attack on Alis, and moved forward, determined to draw the mage off her, when he felt a movement behind him, and turned, dropping at the same time. Sam's blade brushed through his hair, the hazel eyes tinted red, his face as expressionless as a robot's, the gaze fixed ahead, but the hands controlling the sword mobile and accurate. Dean rolled backwards, away from his brother, as he tried to keep track of both Cesare and Sam.

The mage's sword had touched her twice, on her left arm and low on the thigh, neither hits deep enough to prevent use of the limbs. He was faster than she'd thought, and she moved around him warily, knowing that he was too experienced to leave her an opening, she was going to have to offer one herself. A part of his concentration was on his followers, she thought, controlling them must be taking effort and concentration. She saw the opportunity a moment later, as she saw Sam in her peripheral vision bearing down on his brother, his sword blade blurred in the relentless attack. She let herself stumble, and turned slightly away, her sword swinging a little wider out to the side. Cesare saw it, and smiled, driving in at her, the longer, heavier blade chopping down in a feint toward her throat, and thrusting into her side. As soon as the tip was in her, she straightened and turned toward it, biting down on the scream that rose in her throat, pulling his hand closer, her own sword arcing up and flashing down, both hands gripping the hilt as she aimed for his heart. It would have worked, if at that crucial second Castiel's sword hadn't pierced Samyaza's chest, the mage jerking slightly to the side as the sensation had hit him, and her own killing stroke cheated, the tip of her blade flexing against his breastbone, and sliding off.

Cesare pulled his attention back to the woman, angling his sword upward where it was trapped in her flesh, and stepping close to her, his hand shoving her off his blade, sending her crashing to the stone floor. Samyaza crumpled to the floor, and Castiel took in the wide red stain on Alis' side and the mage turning to face him. The angel took two long strides across the floor between them, and swung his blade.

Dean stared at Sam, circling him as he tried to work out the best way to take him. He hadn't travelled two thousand freakin' miles just to kill his little brother. But the mage was good, it was going to be hard to disarm and disable Sam without doing any damage. Behind him he heard the clash of metal on metal, and shut it away, watching Sam's eyes, waiting for the moment when the mage would be too busy to have full control over him.

That moment came as Castiel attacked Cesare. Dean saw the red fade from Sam's eyes, saw the sword drop a few inches as control was relinquished and he reversed the sword in his hand and moved in, turning fast, feeling Sam's blade skate over the mail that covered his torso, the heavy, weighted hilt hitting his brother's skull just behind and below the ear. Sam dropped instantly, the nerve centre paralysed by the blow and Dean spun around in time to hear Cesare's triumphant shout as his sword point drove into the angel's shoulder. Beyond them, his gaze was caught by Alis' crumpled body, and the pool of red spreading out from one side of her.

Time slowed, the seconds stretching out, every detail seen with extreme clarity. His mind cleared, thought and feeling vanishing, and he dropped his sword, his hand reaching automatically for the gun at his back. He watched Cesare pull the blade from Castiel, the angel dropping to his knees, watched the mage turning toward him as the gun cleared the holster and swung around in front of him, his thumb flicking off the safety, his finger settled against the trigger and pulling smoothly back as the sight lined up between Cesare's eyes.

He saw the mage's eyes widen slightly, then there was a small black hole between them, and the thunderous boom of the shot rolled around the cavern's walls, filling his ears. Cesare fell back, and Dean walked toward him, looking down as he put another round into the mage's heart.

Castiel lifted his head, looking up at Dean as he pressed his hand against his shoulder.

"Thunderbolts from his hands," he whispered and Dean came back from that cold, clear place, looking down at the angel, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"You alright?"

"No. But I'll live." He nodded toward Alis.

Dean turned and went to her, looking at the ragged wound in her side as his fingers felt for the artery in her neck. Her heart was beating, blood still flowing from the wound. It was on the edge of her side, just under the end of the lower ribs, and he thought, he hoped, that it had missed the organs. He pulled out his knife, cutting away the clothing and lifting the mail from the wound. He pulled the pouch from her belt, looking at the small pots it held, pulling out the one she'd told him to use on the cut on her head. Thoughts of infection floated through his mind, but there was no time to do this any better right now. Lucifer was coming, and they had to be gone when he got here.

He lifted the layers of armour and clothing from her stomach, filling the wound with the thick paste and wadding up two pieces of cloth to pack against the wound on either side. A wide bandage held the dressings in place, placing enough pressure on them to stop the bleeding, he hoped. She coughed and opened her eyes, as he tied off the bandage, and he helped her to sit up.

"I told you not to come," he said quietly. She looked at him and smiled.

"I am still alive." She looked around at Castiel, kneeling next to Samyaza, then to Sam, lying still on the floor where he'd fallen. "Is Sam all right?"

"Yeah, I had to knock him out." Dean glanced back at his brother. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, pressing her hand against her side as she rolled onto her knees. "Yes, see to Sam. We have to get out of here."

"No argument." He helped her to her feet and turned away, walking back to his brother. Sam lay sprawled in the same position he'd fallen. How had the mage controlled him? He looked up as Castiel walked up to him, looking down at Sam.

"At the base of the skull, where it joins the spine, you'll find a needle, embedded there." He glanced at Dean. "Pull it out. Sam will be fine."

Dean rolled Sam over, feeling along the back of his neck. His fingers found the round bead at the junction between neck and skull, and he pulled it out, looking at the black, fractured crystal with disgust. He dropped it, and lowered Sam's head to the floor again, thumbing up an eyelid. Sam's pupils reacted to the light, and they weren't blown. He'd hit him pretty hard, it might be a few minutes before he came around. He glanced at his watch. Eleven forty. They had a little time, not much but a little.

He looked at Castiel. "You look like crap."

The angel stared at him sourly. "I feel like crap. I'm not going to be much use to you now."

"I'll manage." He lifted the edge of Castiel's cuirass away from the wound, looking at it, then glancing around for Alis. "We'll get you patched up."

Alis walked toward them, a bundle of clean cloth in her hands. "Take off his armour."

Dean watched her clean out the wound in Cas' shoulder, half his attention on his brother, as he followed her instructions. When the stab wound was cleaned out and dressed, he was relieved to see Sam's eyelids fluttering.

"Hey."

Sam opened his eyes and looked up into his brother's face. "Did you get him?"

Dean glanced at Cesare's body and nodded. "Yeah, he's dead."

"He wanted to control the future." Sam muttered, lifting his hand and rubbing his forehead, all the information he'd been gathering for the last couple of months suddenly flooding into his mind. "He got the spell from Azazel. Lucifer wants to use my soul to return to Heaven." He sat up suddenly. "The sacrifice, Atropos can cut the line if the children are freed."

"Whoa, slow down, Sam." Dean gripped his shoulder. "Let's get out of here first, then you can fill us in on all the details."

"No." Sam looked at him. "No, we can't leave. I have to free the children or Atropos can't cut the line."

"Okay." Dean frowned. "What children?"

"The nephilim children, the living sacrifice." He gestured wildly to the rear of the cavern. "They're there, over a pit of magma but I can't free them until Lucifer's through."

"No. No way, Sam. We are not hanging around here and waiting for that sonofabitch to come through."

"It's the only way, Dean." Sam rolled onto his feet, swaying a little as he straightened up. "He'll be in his own body, not a vessel. A construct." He glanced down at Castiel, who nodded slowly. "When he gets through there's some way I can free the children."

"Lemme get this straight, you want us to wait for him? And let him come through? In his own body?" Dean stared at him disbelievingly. "How hard did I hit you?"

"We don't have a choice in this." Sam started to walk to the back of the cavern. "I can't get near them now, but the Moirai said that when he comes through it'll be possible to reach them." He looked back at his brother, following behind him. "If this line isn't cut, he can still destroy this world. And in a mortal body, we can kill him."

"How do you know that?" Dean didn't want to hear that this was the only way. He wanted to get out of here, all of them, in one piece.

"Cesare told me about the plans that Lucifer had shared with him. Mostly lies, at least the bits that were promised to the mage, but his own plans … he wanted to come through my soul, to be washed in the blood of Christ so that he would be free of sin, and get back into Heaven."

"You're staying here makes that more likely, don't you think?" Dean scowled as Sam stopped, as close as he could stand to the ferocious heat of the pool of magma.

"Look." He pointed at the pool and Dean turned to look reluctantly.

The air over the pool was thick and wavery, like old glass, and wisps of gas rose from the molten rock, obscuring the three objects that were suspended over it. He could feel his skin drying out at this distance, could imagine it roasting off him if he got any closer. Through the shimmer and the tendrils of gas he saw the containers, saw what turned slowly within them, felt his stomach heave as he made out the details through the translucent blue liquid.

He turned away, wiping his mouth. "Alright."

Sam looked at him in relief. He didn't want to be here when the devil came through, but everything he'd learned, it all pointed to one thing. This would be the only time, the only shot they would ever have of finishing the job properly.

Dean looked at his watch. Eleven fifty. He walked back to Castiel and Alis.

"We have to stay. You two don't. You need to get clear of this side of the mountain, find a good place to hole up."

Castiel looked up at him tiredly. "It's too late for that, Dean."

Dean frowned at him. "No. It's not."

The angel gestured to the circles, running down in a line to the entrance. They were filling with a liquid, a bright, silvery liquid, moving slowly through the carved channels toward them. "It's started, Dean. I think when the mercury reaches Lucifer's sigil, he'll come through."

"Then get off your ass and get out of here, and take Alis with you!" Dean looked from the circles to Castiel furiously.

The light in the cavern changed and they looked out through the entrance. The northern lights were lighting up the sky again, and even within the rock confines of the mountain they could hear the great rustling and crackling of the energy as the colours filled the night.

"The flare energised the poles, and the lights transfer the eclipse's power, the conjoined flux from Moon and Sun here, to the circles." Castiel shook his head slightly. The phenomena had occurred once before, millions of years ago but it had been mostly harmless then, no creative minds to harness the enormous energy, to direct it. Balthazar had told him about it, he remembered distractedly.

"We can't leave, Dean." He stood up slowly. "We need to prepare ourselves."

Dean stared at the shifting, twisting light show outside the cave, feeling his mouth dry. The lights were reflecting on the silvery channels of the circles, on the polished black stone of the floor, on the faces of Alis and Castiel and his brother. They filled the cavern with patterns, banishing the shadows, combining with the red glow of the magma.

He nodded reluctantly, a glance at his watch showing him that there was now no time to do anything else. He looked down at the circles, choosing his position, pulling his gun from the holster and flicking off the safety, his sword hilt gripped tightly in his left hand. He pulled in a deep breath and felt the creak of the cracked rib, ignoring it as he turned to face the entrance.

"Get to the back, with Sam." He didn't look at them as they moved away, focussing his gaze on the progress of the mercury through the circles, when it reached the sigil, he would have to move fast.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The mercury flowed along the sigil and Dean stepped back as the air began to thicken over the carved symbol, twisting and spiralling, in colours that hurt the eyes to look at. He turned his face away from the slit of white light that appeared above the floor, spreading out, spearing into the cavern and bleeding the colours of everything it touched.

"Dean!"

He heard Sam's voice, distantly and took another step away from the tear in the fabric of reality, turning further. "Sam, stay back."

The … entity that stepped through the blinding argent light was little more than a vague outline, floating above the polished stone and silver liquid, turning slightly as it emerged completely. As the door of the Cage closed, it began to condense, elongating, manifesting, the shape becoming solid, defined into bipedal, into humanoid. It was still too bright to look at directly, incandescently bright and he narrowed his eyes, one arm held over them as he tried to see how far it was progressing, when it would be substantial enough for him to empty his clip into it.

The temperature drop came suddenly, as he watched the shape gain solidity and weight, and he shivered as the walls and floor sparkled with frost, his breath coming out in a solid white fog, the chill biting through his clothing and armour, dragging at his body heat, stiffening his muscles.

* * *

Sam felt the temperature drop and suddenly understood, spinning around to the pool of magma, watching with wide eyes as the crust began to darken, thicken, harden. He saw the shapes of the Moirai against the far wall, and stepped closer to the magma, able to advance more as the heat was sucked from the pool and the rock cooled and became solid.

Alis and Castiel walked with him, getting closer and closer to the pool, shivering as the cold filled the space, dropping in small leaps as Lucifer manifested his construct, creating his mortal body.

* * *

Dean watched as the angel began to turn, arms stretched out widely, each revolution adding detail and substance to the body. He saw the angel's face transforming in front of him, high forehead and dark, winged brows, the deep eye sockets and finely chiselled nose, wide, high cheekbones and the hollows beneath them, the full-lipped mouth, sharp jawline and square chin below those. The angel's eyes were closed, the revolutions slowing, developed muscle covering the wide shoulders, the broad chest, loose pants covering the narrow waist and long, muscular legs. Around his hips, a sword belt carried a long scabbard and a shorter one.

The angel stopped, facing him and he tightened his grip on the Colt automatic, levelling the barrel.

Lucifer opened his eyes.

* * *

The heat had gone from the pool and Sam jumped onto the hard, dark crust, without thought for whether or not it was strong enough, thick enough, to hold his weight. He reached for the glass container and wrapped his arms around, yanking it free of the field that held it, throwing it onto the black stone floor that lined the edges of the magma. The glass shattered, the blue liquid spraying out. The child, small and helpless, lay in the pool, lifting his hands slightly. Alis and Castiel snatched the other two containers from their fields and jumped from the crust to the floor, dropping their containers one after the other as Sam knelt beside the first child. He could see the small chest rising and falling, could see the flutter of a pulse in the hollow at the base of the throat. The eyes opened, a brilliant, vivid green and focussed slowly on him.

The Moirai came out of the shadows, Atropos walking toward them. Sam lifted his head to look at her, as she reached into the air above the three children, her fingers closing around a golden thread that became visible as she touched it. The shears in her hand were silver, and the snap when they closed through the thread was loud.

"Done." She looked down at him. "The line is cut. You can kill him now, and nothing will bring him back again."

* * *

Dean stared into the neon-blue eyes of the archangel, and pulled the trigger, smoothly, unhurriedly, over and over. The gun's voice thundered in the cavern, and the bullets hit the pale but no longer shining flesh of the angel, punching through heart and lungs, through stomach and kidneys and liver and intestines.

The gun clicked twice before he realised he was out. Lucifer was still standing, and one dark brow lifted queryingly.

"I take it that you thought that might kill me?" His voice was smooth and light, the seductive voice of a trained tenor. He gestured and the bullets exited the smooth flesh, falling to the ground as the holes closed up.

"Worth a shot." Dean dropped the gun, curling both hands around the hilt of his sword. "It would kill most mortals."

Lucifer smiled, moving to one side with the grace of a dancer. "But I am not most mortals, Corival."

"Yeah." Dean followed his movement, pivoting on the ball of his foot as he kept his weight forward.

The angel looked around the cavern curiously, then his gaze locked onto the small group watching from the end of the room.

"My soul." He moved toward Sam, and Dean swore softly under his breath, lengthening his stride and raising the blade in his hands.

He had to throw his weight backward as the angel spun around, his own sword rising in a fast upward cut, scissoring around Dean's blade and pulling it from his hands, sending it flying to the wall.

"Not the right sword for me, boy." The vivid eyes stared at him. Dean stared back, watching the long silver blade in front of him, his eyes rising to the angel's as the sword slid back into the scabbard.

"You are not the Corival." Lucifer lifted his hand and swung it to one side, and Dean felt himself flung aside with the gesture, hitting the same wall as his sword had, pain exploding in his chest as the cracked rib broke with the impact, his head smacked against the stone, and he dropped to the floor.


	45. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

* * *

Dean staggered to his feet, holding his ribs gingerly with one hand, as the other groped along the floor for his sword. _Sam._ His thoughts circled his brother. _Sam was unprotected back there against the devil, he had to get back there_.

He looked up as a shadow blocked the light from the entrance, and the light in the cavern changed from the bright and shifting multihues of the northern lights and oil lamps to the soft pale gold lamps alone.

_Come, Corival, it is time._

"Where the hell have you been?" he muttered, dropping his sword and glancing back toward his brother and friends. "Lucifer's already risen."

Fáfnir's wings rustled as he lifted a claw to the man. Dean looked at the long, two-handed sword in it. It didn't look so special. He looked up into the dragon's eyes, losing himself in the shifting argent light.

_Take the sword, without it I cannot join you._

"Join me?" He frowned, not liking the way that sounded. "I thought you were going to fight with me?"

_I am. The metal and magic of a dragon inside of you._

"That wasn't the deal." He stopped in front of Fáfnir, his hand dropping to his side.

Annoyance. _Look at what you face, Corival_.

The dragon shifted his gaze, staring down the dim length of the cavern at the angel.

Inside of Dean's mind, he saw Lucifer as if he were only a few feet from him, as the angel approached Sam and Alis and Castiel.

* * *

"Sam Winchester. A peculiar name, and one that has haunted my dreams." Lucifer stopped in front of them. "You are holding the soul I need to return home."

"You'll never pass through this soul, Lucifer." Sam stared at him. "You're flesh and blood now, and Cesare has bound my soul to my flesh."

The angel smiled. "Details, mortal. Everything in creation can be undone, including Creation."

Castiel straightened up, stepping in front of Sam. "You were thrown down for a thousand years, brother. You cannot break our Father's Word."

Lucifer looked down at him. "It is … Castiel, is that right? One of Michael's loyalists?"

Castiel stared at him. "You can't succeed, Lucifer. The Moirai are unbound. The line has been cut."

The archangel smiled. "That was the least of my concerns, brother. There are always children of Heaven available to bind them again."

He raised his hand and Castiel was lifted from the floor, his fingers scrabbling at the unseen hand around his throat.

"Too bad you picked the wrong side, Castiel. You seem to be more decisive than most of us." His hand snapped out to the side, and the angel flew across the width of the cavern, hitting the far wall like a rag doll and dropping to the floor.

Alis raised her sword, running toward Lucifer, ducking and rolling as his head snapped around to her. She came to her feet within three feet of him, and lunged, the point of her sword slicing down his ribs. He threw back his head and brought both hands together over the sword and it shattered into a thousand shards, falling to the floor at his feet, the concussion through the hilt cracking the bones of her wrists.

"Courage." The angel's eyes burned. "And in a woman. Do you have enough to face a slow, agonising death?"

His hands curled into fists and Alis crumpled to the floor, her face twisting in anguish as the angel's power reached inside of her.

* * *

Through the dragon's enhanced sight, Dean saw blood pour from her nose and mouth, heard the soft bubbling scream in her throat.

He reached out for the sword and gripped the hilt, one hand above the other, staring into the dragon's eyes. Fáfnir became completely still and Dean saw a shade rise from him, a translucent black shadow with blazing silver eyes, the dragon's essence, his soul. Its claws curled around the sword's hilt, over the top of the man's hands, and Dean felt his body tense, become rigid, as that essence wrapped itself around him, permeating his flesh, filling every cell, every blood vessel, every nerve, the dragon's adamantine strength, vast knowledge and crystalline magic lying next to his soul.

He looked down at the blade of the sword, unsurprised to see that the metal had gone. In its place a dark amethyst light flickered slowly, rising and thickening until it reached four feet from the crossguards of the hilt. He turned and ran toward Lucifer, aware in some small, locked away part of his mind that the limitless energy he felt, the strength and cold dragon detachment that encased him like a second skin of steel, would kill him if he had to bear it for too long.

* * *

Lucifer raised his sword, blue-white flames coruscating along its length and slashed at Sam, the tip cutting through the sigils that were engraved into his skin and muscle.

Sam staggered back as he felt the spell shudder and break, and dropped, rolling fast from the angel who pursued him, a second slash breaking the sigils on his back, on his left shoulder.

"I do not need your body, Sam Winchester," Lucifer grated. "Only your clean, sanctified soul." He brought the sword around in a hissing half-circle, catching the man's right shoulder at the apogee. Sam was thrown forward by the impact, hitting the floor as blood flew from the wound and pattered onto the stone behind him.

The angel stopped and the sword point dropped, the flames hissing and cracking the stone where it touched the floor. He lifted his hand and twisted his wrist, and Dean heard a scream, primal and blood-filled, echo around the cavern as Sam's neck was broken, unaware that it had come from his own throat.

Lucifer spun around as the amethyst light swept toward him, his sword flashing up and the white flames meeting it. The angel stood a foot taller than the man, but his strength was match by strength, and he recognised in that first brief encounter that the man was faster, the green eyes bright and vivid in the pale face, filled with fury.

Dean swung the sword wide and low, cutting under the defence of the angel, and felt a huge surge of energy as his sword drank from the wound in the thigh of the archangel.

_This sword is Drykkjumaður, in the language of the people to the west. It was made from the core of a dying star and it drinks what it touches, what it fights, until the enemy has no more to give._

The knowledge came into Dean's mind complete, and he understood it as if he'd always known it. He didn't need a killing blow with this sword. It would drink the life, the energy, the blood and spirit and flesh of the angel until there was nothing left.

He blocked the archangel's sword thrust, sweeping the white flamed blade aside, seeing clearly the amethyst light suck at the flames, drawing them into itself. The backswing ran over the angel's torso, leaving a long charred wound and again the surge of energy through the light and hilt into him.

He looked at Lucifer, his face and eyes cold. "You shouldn't have taken everything, Lucifer."

"I take what I want, mortal" The angel snarled, staggering back, his hand going to the blackened line in disbelief.

"When a man has nothing left to lose, he will stop at nothing." He swung his sword, the light crackling and hissing as it passed through the air, driving the angel backward across the stone floor, drinking the energy of the flaming sword with every engagement, drinking the energy from the angel's flesh with each scratch across it.

He watched the angel become more clumsy, slowing down as the energy was drained from him, the flames of his sword's edge flickering weakly now. This was all he had to do, kill Lucifer. There was nothing else left for him. He felt Fáfnir's disapproval of his thoughts, a sharpening of the dragon's cool appraisal as he continued to drive the angel across the cavern, and his body responded, his injuries forgotten, his strength invincible, his reactions preternaturally fast, his senses stretched out through the cavern, seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling everything, the dragon-enhanced awareness stretching the limits of his body's nervous system.

_We will kill him_, he told the dragon inside of him distantly, _then you will let me die_.

Fáfnir didn't respond.

Lucifer tripped and fell, the mortal body he wore skeletal now, the bones standing out against the flesh, fallen in where there had been healthy muscle. His eyes were no longer the vivid neon blue, paling as his angelic power was drawn out by the dragon's sword as much as the energy of his spirit. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath.

"This is impossible." He looked up at Dean, shaking his head. "I am the most powerful of all angels."

Dean looked down at him. "Not any more."

He drove the point of the amethyst sword down, watching the light flare as it devoured the last of the angel's energy, piercing the heart and sucking it dry. Lucifer's mortal body dried and crumbled into dust as the sword kept drinking, until there was nothing left at all.

He dropped to his knees, his fingers barely holding the double-handed hilt, the energy drawn in by the sword and filling him vanishing. He felt the dragon uncurl from inside him, the black shadow reforming in front of him, claws curled over his hands and the sword gently pulled from his grip.

Pain returned, a hundredfold, injuries and exhaustion and deep, welling grief filling him until it was all he could do to stay upright.

_Sam, Alis, Castiel … all gone_. The world was safe, he supposed. And his world, the time they came from, as well, the angel dead forever.

He found he didn't care.

* * *

He heard, in his mind, the dragon singing softly. Time passed and it stopped after a while. He couldn't raise the curiosity to ask Fáfnir what he was doing. It was no longer of any interest to him. His pain had jelled into a solid mass around his heart and he couldn't move. He didn't want to be healed, and he was afraid that he wasn't going to die.

The increasing warmth in the cavern registered very slowly. The sound of the cough behind him took longer.

"Dean?"

A voice. A voice he knew well. A voice that he had been sure he would never hear again. He raised his head, turning it in spite of the pain, looking into the dark blue eyes of the angel as Castiel knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

"You died."

"I thought so too." Castiel's voice, always gravelly, was hoarse and he coughed again. "The Moirai rewove our destinies."

Dean looked at him, and Castiel smiled slightly.

"Come on, we need you."

He let himself be pulled to his feet, stumbling slightly as he followed the angel across the cavern floor. He saw Fáfnir's dark bulk, shielding the people lying in front of him from the heat of the revitalised magma pool. Sam and Alis lay still and he wanted to turn back, turn away, but the angel's grip on his arm dragged him forward.

"They're not dead, Dean."

He looked down, his expression twisting as he took in the wounds that covered his brother's chest and shoulders, the black bruising and swelling around his neck, the blood that covered Alis' face, and had spilled down the front of her body. He didn't want to see this, didn't want this to be in his memories of them. He dismissed the angel's assertion as if he hadn't heard it, then he saw the rise of Sam's chest, heard the whistle of that breath in his brother's throat and saw his ribs fall again softly.

_Not true_. He'd seen them die. Alis through the dragon's eyes. Sam with his own. He looked at Castiel. The angel gestured toward them.

"Look for yourself."

Crouching next to Sam he watched his brother's pulse beat steadily in the hollow at the base of his throat. He lifted his hand and laid the back of it against Sam's cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, and the gentle exhale of his breath against it. He turned to Alis, his brow furrowing as he tried to wipe the blood from her face, feeling her breath on his fingers, seeing the beat of her heart against the thin skin on the side of her neck.

"How?" He looked up at the dragon.

Satisfaction. _The Moirai were … persuaded to reweave certain lines._

"You did this?"

_I held their souls to their flesh while the lines were redone. _The dragon glanced at the angel._ More is needed. They live, but their injuries are still substantial. A greater power than mine would help._

Dean glanced at Castiel. "You got any juice, Cas?"

"Not in here. The mountain interferes."

"How are we going to get out of here?" Dean looked down at Alis again. "The boat we came in is matchwood."

_I can take you out, back to your home._

"I thought you were wasted?" Dean looked into the silver eyes.

_The sword gave back what it took. I have been … restored._

"Can they … is it safe for them? To fly?" He looked at Sam.

_Safer than staying here._

"When do we go?"

Castiel looked at him. "Go where?"

"Go home," Dean said quietly.

* * *

The first flight took an hour, from the island to a valley behind the fjords. Even wrapped in the thick fur cloaks and pelts of Cesare's stronghold, the air was bitter at the height the dragon flew, and neither Fáfnir nor Dean thought it was a good idea to keep Sam and Alis in it for too long at one time.

The valley was still and white, and they scared off the local wildlife when the dragon landed, the backdraught of his wings sweeping the fine powder snow into a whirlwind of white. Dean and Castiel made camp, lighting a couple of fires for warmth and protection on either side of the thick hide stretched between the trees for a shelter. Sam and Alis remained unconscious, warm in their fur cocoons.

Castiel climbed to the nearest ridge, looking up into the dusky sky. He closed his eyes as he prayed for his brothers to hear him, for his Father to hear him, for power of the souls in Heaven to fill him.

Nothing happened. He shivered in the cold breeze that brushed the ridge line, feeling his hands and feet slowly becoming numb as he waited, his hope fading as the silence in his mind grew.

The first touch was tentative, barely discernible. Then the power flowed into him, guided and directed by he knew not what, but filling him up with warmth and strength and love, the human souls in Heaven sharing a tiny fraction of their infinite energy with him.

He couldn't feel the cold or the breeze or hunger or thirst or pain or exhaustion. His vessel was strengthened again, and it wasn't until he turned from the ridge and began to walk down into the valley that he realised that his feelings, the painful, tangled, _mortal_ feelings had gone as well.

Dean looked up as Castiel walked back into the camp. The angel glowed faintly against the mauve sky, his eyes the deep, vivid dark blue he remembered from their first meeting, his vessel strong and healthy.

"Got your mojo back?"

"Yes." He walked to Sam, laying two fingers on his forehead. Sam sucked in a huge breath and sat up abruptly, every bruise and cut, graze and swelling and wound gone.

He turned to Alis, and laid his fingers against her forehead and she sat up, throwing the furs back as the energy of Heaven's souls healed and filled her, bubbling like champagne through her blood. She looked around, her eyes focussing slowly on the camp, the dragon curled up, a dark shadow against the snow and trees, to one side, Sam and Dean sitting watching her and Castiel, the angel moving with a barely repressed energy she'd never seen in him, striding away from her and going to Dean.

He felt the blast wave of power travel through him, from Castiel's fingers into his cells and blood vessels, his skeleton and muscles and tendons and skin, crackling with power. He pulled in a deep breath and felt his ribs rise and fall smoothly, without pain or stiffness. The exhaustion he'd felt vanished, the bruising and cuts and gashes from the shipwreck gone.

"Could've used that help a day ago," he remarked, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he saw Castiel turn back to him, his mouth opening, no doubt to give him a lecture on gratitude, then closing again as he saw the small half-smile. He walked away stiffly to the nephilim children instead, touching each of them, watching the dream state dissolve as they slipped into a natural deep sleep.

"So, God gives you back your power, and you gonna take off now?" Dean looked down at the fire, watching the water in the small iron pot bubbling.

Castiel turned to look at Fáfnir. "I will have to return the children to their parents. Fáfnir could take you home. You're healthy enough for a single flight now."

Dean glanced at the dragon, seeing one eye open slightly, then close again. "Fine. What about you, Cas? You going stay up there, or come back here?"

"I don't know." Castiel struggled with the choices he now faced. "I would like to find out why Heaven didn't intervene in our struggle."

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind knowing that too." Dean tossed another branch onto the fire and stood up.

"Cas, about going back …," Sam looked up at the angel. "Is that still possible?"

"I don't know that either, Sam. I'll see what's changed." The angel picked up the children and vanished.

Dean looked at his brother. "Do you think it's really over?"

Sam turned away, looking into the fire. "Lucifer's dead. The Moirai cut the old line, rewove the new ones."

"What about our time?"

"That's the sixty four dollar question." Sam glanced up at him. "We changed a lot here, Dean. How that has translated to the future … I don't know."

He stood up slowly, walking a little way from the fire, hearing his brother's footsteps behind him.

"What about the future, Dean?" he said, turning to him. "You want to go back?"

Dean looked past him, over the snowy valley. "Let's see what Cas says when he gets back."

Sam chewed on the corner of his lip, watching his brother's profile. "Yeah. Alright."

* * *

"It's almost two thousand miles."

Irony. _Thank you for sharing that redundant piece of information with me. I do know how far it is._

"You're gonna fly it in one day?" Dean looked disbelievingly at the dragon. Fáfnir sighed, the heavy hot exhale melting the snow at Dean's feet.

_I have flown from one star to another and you're questioning my ability to fly a few of your miles? Really?_

"Huh." Dean looked up at the clear, cold blue sky. "How high do you get?"

_Not high. Maybe five or six thousand feet. Until we get to the Caucasus Mountains there are not high peaks to be negotiated._

"And, uh, if you hit turbulence, what's going to keep us from falling off?" He shifted his gaze to the dragon's sharp backbone.

Amusement. _You are afraid of flying? The Corival? The saviour of the world?_

"Yeah, that's hilarious. I'm not afraid of flying, I'm afraid of falling. And landing." Dean scowled at the dragon.

Laughter. _You can always tie yourself on, if you are really worried about it._

"Don't think I won't." He turned away from the dragon, going to look for rope and hide. Two thousand miles on that bony ridge would kill him.

An hour later, Fáfnir turned his head to look at the roughly put together harness that hung over his back and had been fastened under his belly.

Dean heard the dragon's sniff of disdain in his mind.

_I look like an ass._

He snorted. "Yeah, but I feel better."

_Your brother and lady are not worried about flying._

"They don't have my imagination." Dean tightened the last buckle. "Quit your bellyaching, it's one day, right? Then we're done, and we can go our separate ways, and no one the wiser."

_Hmmf_. Fáfnir turned his head back to Sam and Alis. _Tell them to dress warmly, the air is thin and cold_.

Dean nodded. He'd cut the hide shelter into three long strips, doubling them over the dragon's backbone, where they sat between the spikes that ran along it. Over the hide, he'd doubled the thick bearskins from the cavern of Cesare, tying it all around the dragon's belly and chest, so that they would have something to hang onto even if the dragon decided to do a roll mid-air. It wasn't that he didn't trust the creature, he did, as well as he could trust something that wasn't human. But accidents happened and if they had to fly through a storm, the dragon might be forced into some dodgy aerobatics. He just wanted to be sure that they were all going to arrive together, and in one piece.

Alis climbed up the dragon's side, settling herself behind the wings. Dean sat behind her, tying the rope ends around his hips. Sam scrambled up behind him, long legs reaching almost to the bottom of the dragon's ribs. The makeshift saddles were comfortable and they pulled their cloaks high around their necks and faces, pulling on mittens and gripping the long ridged spikes in front of them.

_Tell them to hold on. Taking off can be uncomfortable._

"Hold on! Tight!" Dean turned around to Sam, gesturing to the spike. "Fáfnir says the take off will be uncomfortable."

The dragon crouched down and sprang into the air, wings outstretched for a moment then beating down powerfully. The upward surge left his passengers' stomachs behind, and their teeth snapped together with each powerful downstroke, the ground dropping away beneath them in exponential leaps as he climbed into the sky.

_Everyone still there?_

"You know, uncomfortable was kind of an understatement," Dean muttered as he tried to loosen the welded on grip of his fingers.

_Once we get high enough it will be easier_. Amusement. _I was expecting screams_.

Dean was silent.

* * *

He was aware that Alis was enjoying herself, looking down with interest as they flew over the countryside it had taken them weeks to ride through. She turned to look back at him frequently, only her eyes visible in the swathing of fur that covered her, but those crinkled at the corners, sparkling with laughter. He couldn't look down, not even to get the bird's eye view of the country. It was too far. Twice now they'd flown through and over the clouds, a potent reminder that they were high, very high.

Fáfnir was right. Once they'd reached the altitude he was comfortable at, it wasn't an unpleasant ride, the wings beating occasionally, but mostly spread out, the dragon's body moving sinuously from side to side as he caught the currents and avoided the crosswinds, sometimes rising a little or dropping a little, but nothing like being in a plane in turbulence. He leaned back against the thick ridged spike behind him and wished there was a stewardess on the flight, preferably serving alcohol.

After six hours, the dragon changed their course slightly, heading more to the south. Dean straightened up, looking around.

"What's up?"

_We are not far now, another two or three hours, over the inland sea, but you are all sore from sitting in one position for too long. I will land, in the mountains. We will rest for an hour and eat. Then we will continue._

Dean looked down, seeing the jagged grey and black peaks below and to the west of them. "Land there?"

_Yes. The mountain at the eastern edge has a wide flat summit._

He nodded, yawning. The flight had been an anticlimax after the tensions of the previous two days and he was starving.

Alis sat up as they spiralled down toward the mountain, leaning out over the dragon's shoulder to watch the ground getting closer and closer. Dean's hands tightened around the spike in front as he restrained the urge to grab her and pull her back into the centre of Fáfnir's back.

The rock underfoot was steady and welcome as he stretched out, watching Sam roll his shoulders and stretch deeply as well. He hadn't felt this stiff after a day's riding, but that was more interactive. Flying with the dragon was like sitting in a hard chair for hours at a time … a chair suspended six thousand feet above the ground, he amended.

"What's the date, Dean?" Sam looked at him. He pushed the edge of the mittens down, and the edge of his jacket up, squinting at the face of his watch.

"December 24."

"Christmas Eve." Sam smiled suddenly.

"Not for another three and twenty two years," Dean corrected him dryly.

He took the bowl of boiled jerky broth that Alis offered him, glad of the warmth and the rich taste of it, eating slowly, watching his brother discreetly as he did.

Sam had a chance of a real life at home, he thought. He could go back to college, maybe not pick up where he left off, but do anything he wanted to do. He'd wanted to ask him about it, how he felt about going home, back to their world, their time, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't know how his brother felt about Ruane, not really. Didn't really know how Sam felt about any of this, or even their life in their own time.

This time was good for him, he got the whole package deal, hunting, friendships, the chance to be himself, without any need to pretend otherwise … he glanced at Alis, and the chance, maybe, for a family in a world where it wasn't impossible to have one. But, if Sam wanted to go home, he would go with him. He knew that. So he hadn't asked. He would wait until Castiel got back from Heaven. Pretend a little longer that he could stay.

* * *

A thousand feet over the village, it seemed tiny, barely visible in the night, the scattered torches along the walls a tiny circle in the darkness, even the gate fires looked ridiculously small.

_I don't think your friends would think much of a dragon landing in front of them._

Dean grinned. "No, after everything that's happened, they might take it the wrong way." He looked north. "There's a big clearing, north of where the river narrows, you can drop us off there."

_Yes._

The wings dipped and they moved silently along the currents of air to the north of the village, spiralling down gently to the wide alpine pasture surrounded by the forest. The road, with its deeply rutted wagon wheel tracks led through it between the villages.

Fáfnir folded his wings against his sides, and looked back over his shoulder, as Alis, Dean and Sam slid down his smooth side.

_Do not leave that contraption on me._

"Wouldn't dream of it." Dean started to undo the knots of the ropes, pulling the harness to pieces, and the hide and furs from the dragon's back.

Behind him, Alis rolled everything into packs, tying the rope and hide straps around them with practised ease. The dragon shook himself delicately when the last piece was undone and pulled free.

"You're not planning on hanging around here, are you?" Dean looked into the dragon's eyes. "Because that would, uh, cause a conflict of interest."

Amusement. _You mean you would feel compelled to hunt me down and kill me?_

"Well, yeah, something like that."

_No. I will return to the north._

"So … we're good then?"

_You did not disappoint me, Corival._

Dean felt his brows rise. "Likewise, dragon."

Fáfnir lowered his head, moving it closer to Dean for a moment, the shifting silver light in his eyes stilling.

_What you did, Corival, was important. You risked your life for all of theirs. It is not something that anyone would do._

Dean shifted uncomfortably, unable to pull his gaze from the dragon's, uneasy with the dragon's words.

Amusement. _Perhaps it is this discomfort with being a hero that is why you were chosen?_

He shrugged. "That's not –"

_I will see you again. Not soon, but sometime._

"Right."

Fáfnir lifted his head, crouching and spreading his wings high and wide. Dean turned away from the blast of wind of the downstroke, walking to Alis and picking up one of the packs. She looked up at him with a tired smile.

"Nearly home."

* * *

After the months of travel, the peace of their camps and the near silence of the trip home on dragonback, the cacophony that surrounded them in the hall pushed them all close to sensory overload. Decorated for midwinter's eve, walls and doorways and lintels hung with pine and spruce and holly, the huge fire burning in the wide hearth and the tables filled with food and wine and ale and mead, the large space was filled with a hundred competing scents, and loud and bright with people – talking, shouting, laughing, singing, closing around them and carrying them through the press to the tables at the far end. Dean looked around dazedly, wondering how he'd considered this normal only a couple of months ago.

Sam lengthened his stride as he saw Ruane rise from the table, her eyes wide. She ran around the end of the tables, skirts gathered in one hand to keep from tripping over them, pushing through the crowd and meeting him with an inarticulate cry of relief in the middle. He lifted her, as her arms wrapped around his neck, breathing in her scent deeply, his heart finally expanding after being held in check tightly for too long.

Valenis rose and followed the younger woman around to the centre of the hall as well, followed by Torgva, slowing as she looked at her daughter, her face softening into a gentle smile when she saw the changes in Alis. She hugged her tightly, her relief too complex to analyse immediately, but she could see that the pain in her daughter had gone, and she could finally see the woman she had known was inside, unafraid, and in love. Alis returned the hug fiercely, sensing her mother's insight and for the first time, not resenting it. When Valenis released her, she went to her father's arms, grateful that he was there, grateful that he'd survived.

Valenis looked at Dean, her smile warm. "I think you have found what you want, Dean."

He looked down at the floor for a moment, then back to her face. "Yeah, I might have."

She caught the edge of doubt in his voice and tilted her head slightly to one side. "Things usually work out the way they're supposed to, even when it seems unlikely."

He looked at her, unsure what to make of that. Was he supposed to be here? Or was he supposed to go back? He had no idea.

"Where's Vasiliĭ?" He looked around, over the heads of the people surrounding them, for the black-haired leader.

"He was killed. In a battle by Black River, with the army of Armârôs," she said quietly. "I'm sorry, Dean. There was so much he wanted to share with you."

Dean looked away, his throat tightening. He wondered who else had lost their lives when the armies had come into the valley, looking at the healer and wanting to ask, to get it out of the way so that it wouldn't take him by surprise like that again. He didn't need to. She saw straight through to what he was afraid of.

"We were lucky, we lost very few, thanks to the protection of the village walls, and the blocking of the passes." She stepped close to him, laying her hand on his arm. "That was your doing, yours and Sam's. Without that, I think we would have been slaughtered down to the last child. Your bombs saved Black River. Vasiliĭ said that was your feat, not his, not ours."

"They were just bombs, Valenis. That's not what wins battles or fights. Men's courage is what wins them." Dean met her eyes, swallowing against the ache of grief. He looked over at Sam and Ruane. "Is Ruane going to lead Deep Ice now?"

Valenis shook her head. "We will see who is the best leader for us in the Spring."

She saw him flinch slightly, against a thought or feeling or memory, and look away again, his eyes following Alis as she walked with Torgva to the table, glancing back over her shoulder at him.

There was something he was holding back, she thought, something he was afraid of, despite being clear in his mind of what he wanted. She wondered what it was.

"Dean, sit and eat and rest. You are home now, you can relax."

He followed her slowly to the table, waiting for Sam and Ruane to walk on ahead of him.


	46. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

* * *

Sam couldn't stop looking at her. He ate the food that was piled into his bowl, feeling as if he hadn't eaten for weeks. He drank the warm, spiced wine from his cup. He smiled and listened to the people around them, hearing the stories of the battles and the Watchers and the success of machines that Kirill and Torgva had built from his roughly drawn plans, but his eyes slid to the side, to the woman who sat beside him every few minutes, seeing something new and different about her with every stolen glance.

She wasn't the same young, shy and unsure woman he'd left in the summer.

He picked up another soft roll and shrugged inwardly. He wasn't the same either. He had been forced into a deeper understanding of himself over the months of travel and imprisonment. And there had been a lot of what he'd discovered in that time that he didn't like, but had now accepted. He wondered if he ever would have gotten what he'd done and been straight in his head, if they had remained in their own time. It didn't seem likely. In their time they had been reacting, moving fast from disaster to disaster, no time to think, no time to put the pieces together or figure things out.

He snuck another sideways look at Ruane. She had a few more lines now, around her eyes, and there were several strands of silver, standing out against the black of her hair. Her eyes were what had really changed. She had seen and done a lot here with her people while he'd been gone. She'd skimmed the events, brushing aside the details, but underneath the light retelling there had been a wealth of things unsaid, of feelings unspoken. He wanted to hear them from her, later perhaps when they were alone.

It wasn't until much later, lying with her in the thick bed of fur and woven fleeces, that he discovered how deep the changes in both of them had really run. When he'd left, she had been a girl, sweet and idealistic and brave. Together, in the warm golden glow of the firelight, he found that she had become a woman, and her passion and her hunger for him was electrifying, the depth and surety of her feelings matching his, their lovemaking wild and desperate and satisfying in a way that he hadn't felt before, a coming home, a meshing of souls.

He lay back, his body soft, and warm and loose with satiation, his mind turning over what had happened, the way that he felt. He wondered how long it would be before Castiel returned from Heaven. He didn't want to leave this time, he knew. Everything in their time was drenched in pain and uncertainty, even without the threat of Lucifer there was nothing back there for him. He couldn't have cared less about the modern problems of mortgages and bills, of politics and wars and famine and over-population. In that time, no matter what he did, it would never make much of a difference to a world gone mad for its own instant gratification. He thought of Cesare's avid greed for that world, for people who would sacrifice what was right for what was expedient, what was convenient.

He wanted to stay here, with the woman who lay beside him, with the blacksmiths and hunters, in a world where his knowledge, scant though it was, could change things, could help. He glanced down at the spill of dark hair over his shoulder and chest. He could be himself here, he could have a life that included love and family and friendships here.

Dean, he thought, would want to go back. He sighed deeply. His brother would feel the need to return, through responsibility, to make sure that the people they'd left behind were okay, were safe. He knew that if Dean wanted to return, he would have to go with him. He couldn't imagine not being his brother's backup. He wriggled down into the warmth of the furs, his arms tightening around Ruane. He hoped Cas would take his time in Heaven, give him a few weeks, to pretend that this could be his life, that he could stay.

* * *

Castiel stood in the vast audience chamber, looking around at the polished marble and alabaster columns as if he'd never seen them before. At the far end, the low dais was empty, and he walked slowly toward it, wondering vaguely what he was doing here.

For almost a year, just one short year out of thousands, he'd been mortal. He had felt hunger and thirst, exhaustion and pain, desire and frustration and anger and even boredom. And in some indescribable way, even when he'd hated his impotence, when he'd longed for the clean power of Heaven and the unthinking relief of obedience to a higher power, he'd enjoyed it. He wondered if the thought was blasphemous. It didn't feel like a thought against his Father.

He'd always been obedient. Even when he'd doubted, he had maintained that unquestioning loyalty to his superiors. The betrayal … the treason … of Uriel and Raphael, in his time, in the Winchesters' time, had shocked him to the marrow of his existence. And before that, Lucifer's outright rebellion against Heaven had been a shock that he didn't think anyone on this plane would ever really get past. He still felt that loyalty, to the Creator, to the idea of an ordered universe. It was just that, now, he also felt a loyalty to the Creator's creations, humanity. Could an angel have two loyalties? To whom would he turn if there was a conflict between them?

It was convenient to be an angel. To live without feeling or doubt, pain or the constant requirements for food and rest. It was also, he had discovered, like giving up a world of colour for a single cell room painted in a shade of grey. He had memories. His angel memories were snapshots, pictures and dry narratives without emotion, without a single feeling attached to them. His human memories were all imbued with emotion, the emotions that had suffused him when the memories were being created – satisfaction, satiation, weariness, suffering, desire … love – he shook his head slightly. An angel, loving a mortal.

He stopped, staring blankly at the dais. Of course, there were precedents.

_Castiel._

He closed his eyes. He had never looked on the face of his Father. He knew of only four angels that had.

"Father."

_You have done extraordinarily well, my son._

"Why did Heaven not reach out to us with strength and help?"

There was a silence, and Castiel waited, wondering if he'd gone too far.

_It was not needed. The three of you did as I had hoped._

The answer was not what he'd been expecting.

_You have felt what they feel, Castiel, lived as they live. Do you want to return to Heaven? To your full powers here? Or is it in your heart to become one of them?_

The question took him by surprise, coming on the heels of his own thoughts about that very thing. He didn't know. Not yet.

"I am … divided … in my thoughts about that, Father. There were many times I wished for the powers of Heaven."

_And there were times you wanted nothing more than to be human._

"Yes."

_You can take time to think it over, Castiel. It is not a simple choice, not for you, not any more._

"Thank you." He bowed his head, grateful for the time, uncertain if he would be able to make that choice, even with a millennia of time to think about it.

"Has the future been so altered now that Dean and Sam can no longer return to their own time?"

_Yes. The death of Lucifer affected everything, Castiel. It was a primary in the nodes and in the future there is no longer a place for them. I have watched them. I do not think they will be so unhappy with staying._

Castiel thought of Dean's sense of responsibility, of Sam's desire for a normal life. Would they be content to stay?

"And if they are not happy?"

_Then they will have to live with that unhappiness. There is no place for them in that world now, Castiel._

_I will come to the mountain of Moses, Castiel, in three of Earth's days to hear your decision._

"Yes, Father."

The chamber was empty, he felt the Presence withdraw from him.

* * *

Dean stopped at the doorway to his room, turning to look at Alis as her fingers curled around his arm.

"You know, there is an expectation if I stay here with you tonight." Her lips were curved in a small smile.

He looked from her into the room and leaned against the doorway, one side of his mouth lifting.

"Yeah, I remember."

"Is that what you want?"

He looked at her, not sure if she were joking or if she really didn't know. He opened his mouth to tell her, then a thought hit him, and he closed it again, his eyes darkening as he realised that he couldn't ask her, couldn't make that promise.

He closed his eyes, his head dropping, the impossibility of the situation boxing him tightly into a corner. He wasn't even going to be allowed to pretend, he thought, tasting the bitterness of it. To ask her to stay with him, to make that promise to her and then, maybe – most likely – have to leave? She'd lived through that once, he wasn't going to be the one to do that to her again. He couldn't.

"I …" He looked at her and stopped, not knowing what to say, how to explain.

Alis watched the tangle of emotions in his face, filling his eyes and felt her certainty in his feelings falter. She looked down, letting her hand drop from his arm.

"I understand. What happens on the trail is not the same thing when back at home."

She turned away, and he closed his eyes, her misunderstanding compounding the pain that cut into him. What difference did it make, if he hurt her now, or later, he thought savagely. He was hurting her no matter what he did. He opened his eyes, seeing her walk slowly down the hall.

"Alis, wait."

She stopped and he caught up to her, looking at her downturned face.

"That's not it."

All his life he'd sacrificed what he wanted, his dreams, barely articulated but felt, for a greater good, and he might, he recognised, have to do it again, but right now, he didn't want to let that sense of responsibility have the final say. Right now, he wanted to have what he wanted, and to hell with the rest of the world, to hell with his brother, and the crappy world they'd come from, to hell with making choices that might have been right, might have what was best, but that tore him apart time after time.

"That's not why I can't … right now." He dragged in a deep breath, struggling against a lifetime habit of not articulating what he felt, of not letting anyone get close enough to make that even an issue. "Alis, I … this," he gestured vaguely around the hall, "you … this is all I want."

She lifted her face to him slowly, and his throat thickened as he saw her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"I don't want to make a promise I might not be able to keep," he said quietly. "And if Sam wants to go back, I …," he looked down, "he's my brother, I'll have to go back with him."

"Back to your time." She looked away, brushing impatiently at her eyes.

"Yeah."

"I thought that you were happy here. That you liked it here."

He sighed, his whole life was tied up in this contradiction. "I am. I do. I don't want to go back. That life … it was nothing but pain. I want to stay, but I might not be able to."

She was silent for a moment, then looked up at him. "You thought that it would be like Petyr? That you would be like him?"

He nodded, looking away.

"The feelings that I had for him …," she hesitated for a moment, "they were not the same as the way I feel about you."

He looked at her, his face twisting. "That makes it worse."

"No," she said softly, glancing back at the room. "If I leave before sunrise, it is not a promise, Dean."

"Are you sure?" His forehead furrowed.

"Should we spend the time we do have pretending that you have already left?"

* * *

The furs surrounding them were warm and soft, and Dean lay back against them, his arm curled around Alis, feeling that he couldn't be any more comfortable than he was right now. His memories of the past couple of hours were still bouncing around his head, making his heartbeat accelerate, his breath catch if he looked at them too closely. Loving someone made it a whole different experience, he thought absently, there weren't any points of comparison. He looked down at her, the firelight from the hearth turning her hair to flame where it lay over his arm and the fur drawn up over her.

And he was seriously contemplating giving this up, this whole life up, for some idea that he could make any kind of a difference in the world they'd come from? That he could even protect his brother from what was in that world, when he hadn't been able to protect anyone else? He didn't want it, any of it, and that was the core truth in his heart. He shifted restlessly, at the injustice, that he would have to give up what he wanted … again. Didn't he ever get to have the prize? Didn't he deserve something of his own when all he'd done for years was put his own hide between the darkness and the people it was coming for? If the lines had been rewoven … what was there for them now anyway? Hunting monsters. Living with loneliness. No home. Few friends. Just him and Sam, becoming more and more bitter as the years went by. Nothing could bring back the family he'd lost, nothing could change that. And it wasn't just him and Sam that had lost in that life, he thought suddenly. Ellen had lost Bill. Mary had lost her father and mother to the life.

It could happen here too. A bad hunt. A bad winter, even. Why did it feel more bearable here, than it ever had in the twenty-first century world? He wasn't sure. He just knew that here, he felt free, and he felt whole. There, he'd felt trapped in the shell of someone who would never, ever get what he wanted.

* * *

Dean woke at the sound of wings in the room, sitting up and looking around tiredly. Castiel stood by the fire, his arms folded across his chest.

"Hey Cas."

"Meet me on the top of the watchtower, as quickly as possible."

The angel disappeared before Dean could ask why. He rubbed his face and rolled out of the furs, pouring water into the shallow bowl on the table and splashing it over his face. Nearly a year of being mortal and the angel still didn't know how to finish a conversation.

* * *

"What's with the summoning?" Dean leaned back against the stone wall of the watchtower, looking at the angel curiously.

"I have my full powers again. I can return you and Sam to 2010, if that's what you want."

Sam glanced sidelong at his brother. They hadn't talked about going home and he had no idea which way Dean was leaning. And now the decision was here.

"Ah, Cas … do you mind if I talk to Dean for a mom-,"

"No." Dean cut him off, looking at Castiel. "We killed Lucifer. The world back home will be changed, won't it? All the old stuff gone? No more angels and demons plotting to destroy the planet?"

"I don't know for certain, but yes, I would imagine that would be so."

Dean turned to look at Sam, not wanting to hear what his brother had to say until he'd got this out. "There's nothing there for us. Our family's gone. Most of our friends are dead. Bobby'll miss us but he's got friends that are still around." He pulled in a deep breath. "And we can have something here. A life. A real life."

Sam felt his brows rising. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." He looked carefully at him, not wanting to say what he had to say next, but knowing he had to. "If you want to go back, Sam, I'll come with, you still could be a lawyer, do what you wanted to do."

Sam shook his head, relief filling him. "I don't want to go back. Not now."

Dean saw the relief and felt his body sag under his own. Hope could be as torturous as despair. Staying. He could stay. They could both stay. It was hard to make it sink in.

He turned back to the angel. "What about you, Cas? You going back to being God's bitch?"

Castiel looked away, feeling his own relief at their decision. He'd wanted to know if they wanted to return, but he was glad that he didn't have to tell them it was impossible. He stared at the mountains that rose in serried lines to the south and east, range after range. "No. I was offered a chance. I think I'd like to take it."

Sam frowned. "What kind of chance?"

"A chance to fall honourably, within Grace." He looked over his shoulder at Sam. "To become a Watcher, teach humanity. I missed being an angel, when I was mortal. But now … I miss being mortal."

"So, hunger, pain, death, the whole messy nine yards?" Dean watched his profile.

"Yes. I'll live a bit longer than most mortals, but I can be killed."

"You'll stay here?" Sam looked at Dean, a half-smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "With Guin?"

"Yes."

He turned back to them. "I have to inform Heaven of my decision. It shouldn't take long."

Dean straightened up. "Who do you need to talk to?"

"God."

Dean glanced at Sam, his face hardening. "I'm coming."

"Uh … Dean … this is really an invitation-only sort of meeting." Castiel took a step backwards.

"No way you're talking to God and I'm not going, Cas. I've been waiting to tear him a new one for a while now."

"Me too, Cas." Sam moved around behind the angel. "We're going with you."

"Uh, I don't know that it's going to be possible."

"Try."

* * *

They were standing on a low peak, overlooking the desert to the east, folds and ridges and gorges of the hammada to the west. Dean looked around the smooth, flattened summit. The ground gleamed blue in the late afternoon sunshine, the slate almost polished.

"Where are we?"

"Jabal al-Madbah" Castiel walked away from them, lifting his head to the sky.

Dean looked at Sam.

"We're in Jordan." Sam looked down at the long curving gorge beneath them. "This was one of the mountains considered likely for where God talked to Moses." The wind was light, but already starting to freshen as the heat of the day dissipated. He could faintly a soft moaning through the deep slit of the canyon's walls.

Castiel glanced at him. "This is the mountain where God talked to Moses."

They both turned at the sound of wings, much louder than they were used to. The appearance of the angel next to Castiel was startling. He was tall, more than a foot above Sam's height. His wings spread out and folded in against his back, the feathers the mottled, tawny colours of an owl. His hair was white, framing a face that was perfectly sculpted, and, in the way of non-human creatures, perfectly symmetrical.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean walked over to Castiel.

The angel smiled slowly. "You must be Dean Winchester. I have been warned of your questionable manners."

Castiel dropped his gaze to the ground, muttering from the corner of his mouth. "Dean, this is Mattara, the Voice of God."

"I thought the voice of God was called the Metatron?"

"Humans call us all by many different names. I am His contact with your kind, and others." Mattara turned away from him, looking down at Castiel. "You were supposed to be alone, Castiel."

"Uh, yes." Castiel kept his gaze on the ground. "The Winchesters have, uh …"

"The Winchesters have done a lot for God." Dean bristled. "I think we've earned a personal meeting."

"Do you?" Mattara looked at him thoughtfully. "I will be happy to relay your request."

He vanished, and Castiel looked at Dean. "Are you insane? I thought you wanted to live a quiet life?"

"I didn't come all this way to talk to a mouthpiece, Cas." Dean glanced at Sam. "God owes us some answers."

"Do you really think so?"

They turned together, staring at the small, old woman who sat in a simple wooden chair at the edge of the flat peak. She was Asian in appearance, shrunken and wizened, a thickly knotted shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

"Who're you?"

"I'm God, Dean." She smiled up at him, her gums pink and mostly toothless, the wrinkles creasing over her face, giving it the appearance of an apple dried in the sun. "In a construct that won't destroy your mind, of course. Too informal? You were expecting something else?"

He watched as her face and body began to change, slowly at first, then faster, male, female, old, young, every skin colour and every race … he saw a flash of George Burns, then Morgan Freeman in amongst the flickering faces, then the parade slowed down on an aged man, tall and austere, with long white hair. The sky-blue eyes held the same glint of humour.

"Is this better? This is Michelangelo's version, Sistine Chapel. It feels very formal, and if you don't mind, I really prefer …"

Dean and Sam watched as the frame of the man shrank, the long white hair shortening and becoming darker, close-cropped around a narrow, anxious-looking face, the stern grey eyes growing larger, round and blue under half-hooded bruised eyelids, the white beard changing to a short, neatly trimmed auburn beard, threaded with grey.

"Bullshit." Dean looked at the man in front of him. "Chuck? Is that a vessel?"

"No. This is a construct – a creation of flesh and blood. I thought you'd feel more comfortable with this." He shrugged.

"You were … are … God?"

"Afraid so, Dean. Time is a linear progression for most, but not for me. I can see all Time, all the time." Chuck turned and smiled at Sam. "Hi, Sam."

"Hey Chuck." Sam's smiled wavered. "Really? You're really God?"

Chuck nodded to Castiel, and folded his arms across his chest, the self-defensive gesture characteristic of the writer they'd known.

"Yeah, I really am."

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean growled at him. "If you're the Almighty, and know everything, why haven't you been keeping an eye on what's happening here?"

"I have been watching, Dean. I just haven't interfered. It's not my problem." Chuck looked at him, his eyes filled with compassion. "That's the thing about free will, Dean. If you have the ability to choose what you do, then you have to clean up the mess, there's no Daddy around to do it for you and spare you the pain."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Sounds like a cop out to me."

Castiel paled, looking from Dean to Chuck. Chuck raised a hand, forestalling the angel's rebuke.

"It's alright, Castiel. This has been a long time in coming; I believe Dean needs to get it off his chest."

"Dean, humanity was an experiment." Chuck looked at him. "Human beings are the only species who are self-aware, who have imagination and a soul. The Divine spark, if you will. And of course, free will. The ability to choose to do as they see fit. That comes with responsibility. If you choose your own actions, then you – and you alone – must wear the consequences for those actions."

"I felt as you did, not long ago." Chuck turned away, looking out over the land around them. "I thought that free will was a failed experiment. People chose to be evil, to inflict harm and pain on each other. They chose the lesser path for wealth, and power. Even those who were not actively evil, chose to look the other way when they saw evil, rather than risk themselves to stop it when it rose. I washed the choices away, washed the Earth with a flood, and only a few survived my wrath." He looked down. "One man came to me afterward, and begged me not to raise my hand against man again. He told me it would take time but humanity would learn, learn to love, learn to forgive, learn to live together in harmony."

"My concept of time is a little longer than yours." He smiled. "I am used to waiting in timeframes of millions of years, rather than thousands, or dozens, as you do. I promised I would not intervene again after the flood, and I have not. And I am heavy with sorrow, at the way things have gone. But God's Word cannot be broken." He looked up at them. "I intervened for you and your brother. I can meddle a little, where it's not too visible. I intervened on Castiel's behalf. I showed the Fates where to find you and I gave Azazel the spell of raising, believing that this time, in this place, you and Sam would be able to succeed, when I saw that you hadn't, really, in the year that you came from."

"And still, humanity has not changed. If anything the last century has been worse than ever before. More people, less compassion, more avarice, lust, wrath, envy, gluttony, sloth and pride than the earth has ever seen. But I will persevere."

Dean looked down, his mouth twisting. He couldn't argue that. "Why, why do you let monsters live on earth? Why do you let good people be killed or turned by evil?"

"Checks and balances, Dean. Checks and balances. I don't 'let' anything happen. It happens because it is its nature to happen." Chuck gestured at the desert behind them. "If I removed all the predators from the earth, what do you think would happen?"

Dean looked away, and Chuck nodded.

"Yes, the prey animals would breed out of control, consume the environment and die themselves, slowly, agonisingly, of starvation. So there are checks and balances, to ensure that no single species can destroy everything." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "At least, it was working quite well that way until recently."

"And everything is a balance." He looked back at them. "Good and evil. Light and dark. Male and female. Young and old. Everything has its place, for a reason. You have no idea how long it took to design all the systems so that they would be self-perpetuating, would continue on without needing constant interference."

Dean looked at him. "And our family? Our mother? Our Dad? That was a part of your plan?"

"No. Of course not." Chuck shook his head. "Mary made a choice, Dean. And I couldn't interfere with that choice, or with the consequences of that choice. Your father had to live with that choice for many years. You and Sam have had to live with that choice. If I'd taken her free will, would that have made it better? If I had saved her from the consequences of her freely chosen decision that night, I would have destroyed everything that I'd built."

"Do you know, do you have any inkling at all of how many stories like yours there are? Over this one small planet, over the short history of mankind? I have wept for them all, because there is nothing I can do. People are free to make their own choices, to choose their own paths. And they make mistakes. And they pay for them, in one way or another."

"We didn't make a choice like that, me and Sam. But we carried the consequences for it."

"Yes, another bummer about free will. That is the meaning of the phrase 'the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children'; your mother's choice dictated your lives. And even then, there were many times you could have quit, could have turned your back on what you knew to be true, and walked away from it all. You didn't. Why not?"

"I didn't want people to die." He looked at Chuck tiredly. "I couldn't have lived with myself."

Chuck smiled. "You are very like your mother, Dean. You both made a choice to save those you loved. You both had to pay for it with your lives. And …" He turned away, the smile fading.

"Neither of you really knew what you were choosing. What the long term consequences would be."

"Not that anyone does know that," he added, looking back at Dean "I don't think you would have made a different decision, even knowing what would be put in place with that choice, would you?"

Dean shook his head. "I couldn't let him die."

"If I'd killed Jake, none of it would have happened." Sam looked from Dean to Chuck.

"But you couldn't, and your choice was governed by the very things I've been waiting to see in humanity, Sam. Empathy. Compassion. The strength to let an enemy live, instead of killing. Sometimes it doesn't work as you or I might hope, but your choice was a promise for the future."

"Would Cas' plan, to kill Azazel at the church in Maryland, have worked?"

Chuck looked at Castiel and shook his head. "No. Azazel had bound the Fates on two occasions. He saw all the lines reaching from his atrocity in Maryland. He knew that there was a possibility that you – or someone – would be there, to kill him before he could complete the ritual."

"And you gave him the spell to raise Lucifer and to bind the Fates?" Sam frowned.

"I had to." Chuck spread his hands out. "This was the only time and place that Lucifer would rise, in his own form, a mortal form that could be killed by a mortal. Every other time he's used a vessel, and the vessel was always you, Sam. I couldn't take the choice away from you, but each time it ended without him dying, the lines would follow a much worse path."

"Why didn't you help?" Dean looked at him. "If this was your plan?"

"You didn't need help. You did what was in you to do, both of you, from your own free will. You made your choices and … well, it worked." Chuck smiled gently. "It was a great success, it's given me a lot of hope for the future."

Dean rubbed his forehead, biting back the comment that came to mind. There was something else he wanted – needed – to know.

"Chuck, are … are our parents in Heaven?" Dean asked. "And Ash, and Ellen and Jo?"

Chuck nodded. "Oh yes, Dean. Self-sacrifice, freely offered, has always been the one thing that can wipe everything else out."

He watched them for a moment, then turned to Castiel. "You've made your decision?"

"Yes. I will stay, on earth. As a mortal."

"As you wish." Chuck turned away from the angel, looking briefly into the sky, then back at Dean.

"I could heal you, you know, take away all that pain and doubt."

Dean shook his head, his expression suddenly mulish. "I can heal myself."

There was a fluttering of wings, and an angel appeared behind Chuck. Like the Mattara, he was taller than the men, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, his wings many shades of white, from pearl at the leading edge of the primaries to silvery grey at the ends of the tertial feathers. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, he wore a close-fitting white tunic, belted around with a sword belt. A very long sword swung back from his hip, the elaborate basket hilt close by his hand.

"Michael will take you back." Chuck glanced at the archangel.

"You're Michael?" Dean looked at him. The archangel looked back, brows slightly raised.

"Yes. Have we met?" His voice was deep and mellifluous, the timbre reminiscent of the lower tones of a cello.

"Not really. I've heard a lot about you." Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, who shook his head, his eyes warning his brother.

"Wait a minute, Chuck." Dean looked at the man standing on the edge of the summit. "Can we really have a life here? There isn't going to be any new emergency situation? Something to drag us back into Heaven and Hell's games?"

Chuck smiled ruefully. "I don't know, Dean. You have to ask Lachesis about what will happen next, she's the one who weaves the pattern, who allots the time."

Dean scowled at him. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"Sam knows. They owe him a favour." Chuck was fading, a little more each second. "You have free will, Dean. You can choose your own path, if you know what you really want."

He disappeared.

Michael took a step toward them, his wings spreading out widely. "I am entrusted with your safe return. Stand close."

Castiel walked to stand next to the archangel, and Dean and Sam approached him more cautiously. The wings swept around in front of the angel, enclosing them all within their span and they disappeared.

The desert wind blew through the gorge, belling now in the constricted space between the tall rock walls, like a trumpet.


	47. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

* * *

_**January 8, 2010**_

John Winchester compressed his lips as he tried to make his way through the press of people that filled the auditorium. He hated these functions at the school with a passion. He craned his neck, looking over people's heads as he tried to find his family, somewhere in the hundreds of standing and sitting parents, teachers and students.

He saw Genny's wave and lifted his hand, cutting through the seats to the side of the hall and moving fast down toward his wife and two boys. It was the last time he'd have to do this, he told himself, as he edged between the rows of seats, murmuring apologies under his breath as he stepped over and past the legs and bags and coats of those seated.

"I thought you weren't going to make it." Genny's voice was low, but held an edge.

"I know, I'm sorry. Car blew a gasket and I had to go back to change it," he muttered back to her. "I miss anything?"

"No. The notables have spoken, we've got a half hour of student speeches, then the presentation."

"Good." He leaned back in the folding chair, and closed his eyes.

"If you fall asleep, John, you'll be signing divorce papers in the morning," his wife warned him. He smiled and opened an eye, rolling it sideways at her.

"Come on, when I have ever fallen asleep at these things?"

She snorted and slid her arm through his.

* * *

Mary looked at the crowd pushed tight around the makeshift bar and sighed. She would kill for a glass of white, these functions drove her crazy and she still had another one to get through in two years' time. She looked around for Mike or the kids, but couldn't see any of them. Oh well, she thought, who dares wins.

Easing her way back out without spilling the overfilled flute was a lot harder than getting in there. Someone backed into her and she lifted the glass, swinging her hip out to push the idiot back where he'd come from. She looked up just in time to stop herself from running headlong into the man in front of her, a little of the Semillon sloshing over her wrist.

"Mary, it's been a long time." The man looking down at her was tall and dark, broad-shouldered and deep-chested. He looked singularly uncomfortable in the navy blue suit and tie.

"John Winchester, right? Yes, we only moved back last year." She inched her way left, trying to move around him.

He backed up, forcing a path through the crowd for them. "Madhouse in here, every time."

"Yeah, who knew that school functions could be the modern equivalent of Hell?" She smiled tensely as an elbow came her way, apparently determined to knock the glass from her hand. John intercepted it, and the owner turned around and apologised.

"Thanks." She stepped into a clear space and took a deep breath. "I hate these things."

"Me too." He looked back at the bar, deciding to give it a few more minutes before attempting it again. "How many have you had to go through?"

"This is my third. But I've got another two years before I'm finally free and clear." She smiled slightly. "We had kind of a late start."

"This one's our last, thankfully." He looked down at her as she swallowed a third of her glass in a mouthful.

She looked good, long blonde hair lifted back from her face, loose down her back, bright against the lipstick red suit that showed off her figure and long legs. He was surprised to find that the memory of their one date was still readily available. His mouth curved up slightly as their conversation came back to him.

"What are you smirking at?" Mary looked up at him, one brow arched. It had been thirty seven years since she'd seen him last and she still found him vaguely irritating.

John shrugged. "Our last conversation. Not as cordial as this one."

Mary felt a faint heat rising in her cheeks as the memory came back with full clarity. It had not been a pleasant conversation, and even now, she still felt embarrassed when she remembered what she'd shouted at him.

He looked at the colour in her cheeks and shook his head. "We were kids, Mary, if you can't be irrationally passionate at that age, when can you be? It's okay."

_Irrationally_ passionate? The thought killed the similarly polite remark she'd been about to make and she stared at him for a long minute in silence.

"Uh, well, looks like the crush has gotten a bit better." He looked at the bar, recognising the daggers in the silence between them. "See you around."

"Not if I see you first," she muttered, turning sharply and striding away, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden floor.

* * *

In the corner of the room, a man watched them part and go their separate ways. He wore a non-descriptive grey suit, with a blue pinstriped shirt and tie, his hair neatly combed back. He looked like a teacher, or a parent, or a friend of the family. Except for his eyes. Far back against the blue irises there was a faint flash of yellow.


	48. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

_**Summer, 522 BC**_

It has surprised me to find how well this life suits me. I could not have dreamed that the simple pleasures that I have found here could have been more satisfying, more meaningful than the years I spent as a guardian and observer of the planet, liaison with the Eighth Choir and soldier in Heaven's Host.

The days and weeks and months pass in a steady flow, counted out by the jobs we do, the growth of children and the passing of the elderly, the season's gentle progression and the way that the earth responds to each.

Dean is a different man. Still driven, both by his sense of responsibility and his need to keep everyone under his protection safe, he laughs and smiles more now than I ever have seen him. Something has been released inside him, I think, something that he held too tightly for too long in the time that was supposed to be his. Perhaps in a few years he will have found a way to heal himself completely, I do not know. I have hope for him now.

The village gave him their trust and belief at the Spring equinox and he is now the leader of Deep Ice, counselled by Sam and Ruane, Torgva and Valenis, and, somewhat surprisingly, myself. As a political system I believe it works well, if only because the village is small, and everyone knows what problems must be faced. The expression on his face was priceless when the count was announced.

Sam too has changed. I admit I doubted him when we first met. What he'd done, what he continued to do was an anathema to everything that I believed. He, perhaps more than any other, has surprised me. God was right. What is in Sam, that duality he seems to be alone in bearing, showed most clearly how the human soul can defeat evil even when it is so close. Cursed as a child, twisted and perverted through the blood of Azazel, he persevered through everything to choose good over evil, and he was prepared to give up his life to that fight. He is the hope of humanity, I believe. An enduring hope that at some point, all people will make the same choice.

He works closely with his brother and Torgva on things to help the people here. I had my misgivings when they first began, but it has not escaped either of them that convenience and quantity do not make up for satisfaction and quality, and neither have allowed the mistakes of their past to affect their future here.

For myself, I am a teacher. It is a strange thing to say, even in the silence of my own mind. Perhaps in this line of destiny, my teachings, and those of Sam and Dean will carry forward, multiplied exponentially with the population until we do reach the evolutionary point that God seeks. It is probably a waste of time even to speculate about it.

Even as angel I could not clearly see where the nodes crossed and the choices they gave. As a mortal, I find that I have no desire to see where we will end up. This life is precious in its moments, not in its span. To hear laughter, to see a smile, or a tear, to taste new bread, to feel the arms of someone I love around me … those are the things that I hold close in my memories.

I have no regrets about the way that it has played out. The players are still together, and they have found happiness and peace … and freedom.

* * *

_Success is not measured by what you accomplish, but by the opposition you have encountered, and the courage with which you have maintained the struggle against overwhelming odds.  
~ Orison Swett Marden_

* * *

**END**


End file.
